


Infinite Realities, Infinite Desus 2k17

by AbigailHT, AggressivelyBisexual, AJWmagickl, baku_midnight, beejohnlocked, CanonCannon, DarkVictory, GabbyD, JamesJohnEye, m0usielous1e, oleanderedits, samuelbyrnes, shinysylver



Series: Desus Squad Challenges [2]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: AU Challenge, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Dinosaurs, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Foster Care, Alternate Universe - Guardian Angels, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Merpeople, Alternate Universe - Movie Stars, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Alternate Universe - Prison, Alternate Universe - Shapeshifters, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Creatures, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Angel!Paul Rovia, Angst, Barista!Paul Rovia, Coming Out, Construction Worker!Daryl Dixon, Cussing, Demon!Daryl Dixon, Drunkenness, Each chapter new writer, Established Relationship, Fanart, First Meetings, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Heavy Petting, Holding Hands, Humor, Jocks Suck, Language of Flowers, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Mating Bond, Mutual Pining, Role Playing, School Sucks, Shapeshifting, Slow Burn, Smut, Supernatural/Paranormal Romance, Teen Angst, Trans Daryl Dixon, Trans Male Character, True Stories of the Whooping Crane, daily updates, desus fanart, first anon then the writers will be revealed, in the closet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2019-01-10 18:49:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 81,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12305445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AbigailHT/pseuds/AbigailHT, https://archiveofourown.org/users/AggressivelyBisexual/pseuds/AggressivelyBisexual, https://archiveofourown.org/users/AJWmagickl/pseuds/AJWmagickl, https://archiveofourown.org/users/baku_midnight/pseuds/baku_midnight, https://archiveofourown.org/users/beejohnlocked/pseuds/beejohnlocked, https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanonCannon/pseuds/CanonCannon, https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkVictory/pseuds/DarkVictory, https://archiveofourown.org/users/GabbyD/pseuds/GabbyD, https://archiveofourown.org/users/JamesJohnEye/pseuds/JamesJohnEye, https://archiveofourown.org/users/m0usielous1e/pseuds/m0usielous1e, https://archiveofourown.org/users/oleanderedits/pseuds/oleanderedits, https://archiveofourown.org/users/samuelbyrnes/pseuds/samuelbyrnes, https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinysylver/pseuds/shinysylver
Summary: "Hands hold his hips down, chests sliding together. He can feel muscles shift under his fingertips, gets just enough warning to let himself be pushed over, onto his back, arching up into the other man. Pupils blown wide, eyes darker than an angel’s ought to be, so beautiful that it even causes Daryl to worship again.Paul above him, one hand on the devil’s chest to hold him down, panting a little. He can’t help but roll his hips impatiently, more human now and less angelic, chasing pleasure and hardly caring about such a trivial thing asconsequence."///A collection of AU oneshots by various Desus writers with daily updates!





	1. Preface

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to "Infinite Realities, Infinite Desus 2k17", the second challenge of Desus Squad! :)
> 
> This time, it's not a competition, it's just fun! Some of our best and loveliest writers have again participated and submitted awesome little stories to sweeten the hiatus <3 Also, this time fanarts also were included! 
> 
> The chapters will be posted daily anonymously (you'll only see my name ;D). After the last chapter, writers will be tagged in their chapters and until then, y'all can have fun guessing who the writer might be ;D There won't be a voting this time, but a general survey in the last chapter, so don't forget to check it out :)
> 
>  **Trigger warnings** will be found in the **end notes** of each chapter, so make sure to be safe and check them out before reading ;)
> 
> Now, lean back, enjoy, and if you feel like making the writer's day, leave them comments <3
> 
>  Kisses! Aby <3
> 
> ***** Update: All writers have been tagged in their chapters now :) *****

* * *

  **The world of reality has its limits;**

**the world of imagination is boundless.**

_Jean-Jacques Rousseau_

* * *

 

* * *

Fanart by [abigailht](http://abigailht.tumblr.com/tagged/myart)

* * *

 

**Have fun!! <3 **

**And don't forget to check the end notes in each chapter for trigger warnings!**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to MyPinkCactus for putting up with me and this fanart, and giving me feedback, the times I ran to her whining... xD <333


	2. Cupid With Whiskers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Look I know it’s three in the morning, but I can’t find my cat.”

Now, Paul isn’t a bad owner. Not at all.

His cat is happy and well taken care of - so much you could even consider her spoiled - ever since he found her in the streets. The best food and toys he can afford, always ready to both give attention and respect her space when necessary; really, that cat has a better life than him!

So why, pray and tell, Judas would always randomly disappear on him Paul simply doesn’t know. Maybe he wasn’t so wrong when picking the name, even if it had been a joke at first.

And that brings him here.

“I _know_ you’re awake, Daryl!” He knocks again on the 24B apartment’s door, the act almost routine now. “Either you answer the door or I’ll keep knocking and we will both get evicted. Your choice.”

Three seconds later when the door opens violently Paul has to control himself as to not jump, then to not stare as Daryl’s shirtless torso is suddenly right there in his face, now visible through the wide open gap from the door.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, _what_.”

“It’s just ‘Jesus’, thanks,” Paul doesn’t resist the cheeky reply. “Hi.”

“Fuck off.”

“No need to be hostile. Look I know it’s three in the morning, but I can’t find my cat.”

Daryl stares at him for a few seconds before closing the door on his face, like the damn asshole he is.

“Come on now, please Daryl! I need her, ok? I need to find her.”

A snort from the other side and the door opens again. “Fine, come in.”

The first thing Paul notices as he enters the apartment for the first time is that it’s not that different from his own but a lot more _bare_ , with very few personal things around as if the other was expecting to flee at anytime. The second thing he notices is that, unfortunately, Daryl has put on a shirt. Or is it fortunately? Paul isn’t sure he’d be able to pay attention otherwise.

“I just don’t understand why she keeps coming here,” he comments trying his best to not sound upset.

He looks around, looking for any sign of the scarred black ball of fur. Instead he sees a crossbow on top of the table and a bloody bag. That’s a normal thing to have, right? If you’re a hunter or maybe...

 _Please don’t be a serial killer,_ Paul begs mentally _. God, please don’t let my hot neighbor be a serial killer. Please don’t let my hot neighbor whose apartment I just entered alone be a serial killer._

“Maybe it’s ‘cause yer a shitty owner.”

“I’m a _great_ owner, thank you very much,” Paul replies a bit defensively. “Maybe you keep putting out food for her. I did notice she’s getting fatter and it isn’t because of me.”

It wasn’t a real accusation, but Daryl seems to have taken offense anyway. “The hell would I do that’ for?”

“I have no idea, why would you?” The teasing in his voice is now clear. Paul smiles as the other glares at him angrily. “Maybe you want to steal her away from me, her rightful owner. Or maybe… maybe you just want me to keep coming here and bothering you about it. Maybe you like my company.”

“Or maybe she comes here to eat jus’ cause ya starve her and I hate yer guts.”

Though the man’s gruff answer was curtly, Paul could see the red that tinted the tip of his ears. Playing with Daryl and driving him to the edge is always fun if only for his reactions.

“I don’t starve her, she has a diet to follow. There’s a difference.” He realizes what Daryl just said. “So you admit that you’re feeding her? It’s ok, you can say it. I know you have a soft spot for my cat.”

“I ain’t feeding yer damn cat, shut it,” Daryl denies instead, leaving the room supposedly to look for Judas. It’s not long before he comes back with the cat in his - _big, trunk-like and deliciously exposed_ \- arms. “Here, time to go home, Darlin’. Yer shit owner is here.”

Paul accepts the cat in his arms, hugging her. “Her name is Judas.”

“That’s a stupid ass name, jus’ like Jesus. I ain’t callin’ her that.”

Judas makes an agreeing meow in his arms, and he can’t tell which side she’s on so he pretends its his. By the smug look on his face, Daryl did the same thing. “Thank you, Daryl.”

The man nods at him, watching as he hugs his cat and plays with her little paws. Most people didn’t expect a cat that looked that intimidating to be this playful or cuddly, given the scars on her little face and one of her missing ears, but ever since Paul gained her trust Judas was the closest thing he had for a family. He gives the top of her head a quick kiss as she purrs at him.

“Why dja need her so bad?”

“Huh?” Paul tries to play innocent, but Daryl just stares at him not fooled for a second. He sighs. “Just… it’s going to sound pathetic, ok? But I had a nightmare and she’s usually there to help me. I couldn’t go back to sleep so I just—I needed her. Go ahead and laugh.”

He readies himself for the mocking comment. Instead, Daryl surprises him by just looking like he understood, even if slightly guilty, and he cleans his throat before speaking again hesitant.

“You wanna talk ‘bout it?”

“Do _you_?”

Daryl shrugs, staring at him for a second before turning away. “Fuck this. Go sit down, I’m gettin’ us some beers. You ain’t leavin’ yet, ya won’t be able to sleep anyway so stay.”

Paul does as he says, going to sit down on the world’s ugliest second-hand couch and setting Judas down next to him, letting her play with his hand. The couch is, and he admits it with a broken heart, way more comfortable than his own. It’s not long before Daryl hands him a can and sits next to him.

They drink in silence for awhile, the only sound echoing through the apartment being of Judas’ playful attacks.

“How dja know I was awake?”

“I heard you pacing around your apartment.”

_Sometimes hearing it helps me calm down when I have a nightmare - Judas in my lap and your steps through the wall. Knowing you’re there and I’m not alone in the world._

_Even if it worries me how much you seem to do it._

He doesn’t say any of it, choosing instead to down his beer and look at his cat who decided to calm down and was now snoring quietly between the two of them, looking like she belonged there.

“Nightmares,” Daryl explains quietly after a while. “I got them a lot too.”

Paul looks at him, eye to eye. “Yeah?”

“I’m real glad you have yer cat.”

“Me too.” He nods, a soft smile on his lips. “I’m glad to have you here, too.”

There’s a second where Daryl doesn’t really seem to know how to react, his face going red and his mouth open slightly, but then he too smiles and moves closer a bit. Time seems to go slower as they move towards each other, closing their eyes, before Judas suddenly jumps up and runs out of the couch startling them both.

“The hell, Darlin’?!”

“Judas, your traitor!”

Jesus lets out a nervous chuckle, not knowing what to do after their moment was interrupted, but as he looks at where Judas went he notices something and squints a bit to see better, not trusting his eyes.

“Wait… is that a food bowl?! Daryl!”


	3. New Parts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When a beautiful stranger who calls himself Jesus suddenly walks into his café, Daryl finds himself feeling anxious in a way he isn’t used to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first part in my [Tans Daryl Dixon series.](http://archiveofourown.org/series/900492)

Daryl is the only person out on the floor when a man with long hair and a clean cut beard walks through the front doors. It’s only four minutes until closing time, and Daryl groans at the thought that this guy will keep him from locking up soon.

The man walks up to the counter with a small smile on his lips, looking Daryl up and down, “Is Sasha here?”

“Who’s asking?”

“Tell her it’s Jesus,” the guy smirks.

Daryl scoffs, “I ain’t calling you that,” before the door behind him swings open.

“Jesus!” Sasha rushes around the counter to pull him into a hug.

Laughing warmly into her embrace, _Jesus_ says, “It’s good to see you, too,” and winks at Daryl over Sasha’s shoulder.

After they pull away, the guy stretches his hand out towards Daryl, “Hi, I’m Paul Rovia, but my friends call me Jesus.”

“Daryl,” he grunts back, clasping Paul’s hand warily.

“Have you seen Maggie yet?” Sasha asks.

Paul shakes his head, “I only just got here, wanted to stop in to see you and get some coffee. It’s been a long day.”

“Sure, Daryl will make you whatever you want,” Sasha turns and raises her eyebrows at him. Daryl just rolls his eyes and nods back.

Sasha’s lips quirk with that little smile that means she’s holding in laughter, usually at Daryl’s expense. “Just mark his drink out with my numbers,” she tells him.

“We have to finish closing up, but you can chill here until we’re done if you want to,” Sasha says to Paul, “Let Maggie know you’re here and to meet us at that Hilltop bar. Do you want to join, Daryl?”

He shakes his head, “Nah, can’t. Thanks, though.”

“Okay,” Sasha smiles sadly, “Well, feel free to join us later if you change your mind.”

She waits until she sees him nod before walking to the back to finish her supervisor closing duties.

“So what do you want?” Daryl asks Paul brusquely.

“Oh, um,” he blinks, “venti americano with two extra shots.”

Daryl raises his eyebrows, “Anything in that?”

“Nope, just black.”

“You got something against sleeping tonight?” Daryl asks.

Paul laughs, “I can sleep when I’m dead.”

As Daryl grabs a cup and starts pulling espresso shots, he sneaks glances at Paul from beneath the curtain of hair falling over his face. Paul catches his eyes during one of those surreptitious glances and raises his eyebrows, smiling secretively at Daryl. Feeling a flush of warmth on his cheeks, Daryl quickly turns away to fiddle with getting a lid and sleeve for Paul’s drink.

“Here,” Daryl grunts, holding the coffee out towards Paul.

Taking the cup from Daryl’s hand, Paul makes sure to purposefully brush his fingers over Daryl’s, smiling wider at the hitch in his breath. Daryl just scowls back at Paul until he walks away to sit in the lobby, letting Daryl finish closing up.

Once the three of them are standing out on the street after Sasha has locked the front doors, Paul smiles at him again, “I hope I get to see you soon, Daryl.”

Daryl grunts and nods at them in goodbye, raising his hand over his shoulder in a wave as he walks away. Still unable to afford the parts to fix up his bike, Daryl counts himself lucky to have been able to get a job only a couple miles from where he lives, not minding that it’s a bit of a longer walk. Especially on quiet nights where the cool breeze can calm the lingering buzzing under his skin from a long day surrounded by people. Daryl stares up at the stars above him, mapping the constellations and filling his mind with the sounds around him.

He misses the woods of northern Georgia, misses the solitude in nature, away from traffic and busy apartment complexes and Starbucks’ filled with assholes. But he doesn’t miss the family he had to run away from.

As Daryl walks through the door to his apartment, his phone vibrates with a text.

_Rick: Me and Michonne are meeting up with the gang in Woodbury. Want us to pick you up on the way?_

_Daryl: Sorry man. Not tonight_

_Rick: You all good?_

_Daryl: Ya. Say hi to everyone_

Without waiting for a reply, Daryl turns his phone off, wanting to be alone for the rest of the night.

Daryl takes his time heating up leftovers, drinking a beer with his dinner, football game on mute in the background. After showering, he sits in the bathroom and takes his T injection. Daryl spends a couple minutes just staring at himself in the mirror, wondering if he should shave the scruff of a goatee he’s been lazily letting grow. He stays in front of the mirror until the face before him stops looking like him and starts looking like a construction of parts and machinery. The oldest project he’ll always be working on.

\--

The next day, Daryl is at work again and too distracted to notice someone walking up to the counter until a quiet cough startles him. He turns to find Paul grinning at him, long hair pulled up in a bun, showing off the elegant curve of his neck. Paul is wearing a sleeveless shirt, and Daryl can’t help himself from noticing the contrast between his delicate collarbone and the strength in the muscles below it.

Daryl feels a familiar heat on his cheeks when he meets Paul’s glittering eyes and his small, knowing smile.

“Hey,” Daryl clears his throat, “Um. Sasha’s not here today.”

“I know, I’m not here to see her,” Paul says.

“Neither is Tara,” Daryl replies without thinking.

“How did you know I’m friends with Tara?”

“Oh. Uh,” Daryl coughs, “I mean, I just assumed, if you’re friends with Sasha and Maggie, you know.”

Paul quirks an eyebrow and smirks playfully, “What else did you assume about me?”

Daryl is thankfully saved from having to answer when Carol pokes her head out from behind the door to the back room, and he almost wants to hug her in relief.

“Hey when you’re done with your customers,”--Daryl guiltily realizes a small line has formed behind Paul--,“Go ahead and go on your lunch, pookie.”

With a quiet growl, Daryl turns his back on Carol’s faint chuckling while also avoiding Paul’s eyes, “What can I get you?” he asks.

“Just an iced coffee, black please,” Paul replies.

As Daryl finishes his drink, Paul asks him, “What are you doing for your lunch break?”

“I was just gonna sit and chill,” Daryl says, “Why?”

Paul finally catches Daryl’s eyes again and offers him a small smile, “I was wondering if I could sit with you.”

Daryl intends to say no, but when he opens his mouth he finds himself saying, “Okay,” without knowing why.

“I’ll just be at that table over there,” Paul says, walking backwards to keep eye contact with him.

Daryl feels his heart rate rising with anxiety as he finishes the last of his customers’ drinks and clocks out for his break. He takes a couple deep breaths, balling his hands into fists to stop them from trembling. Trying not to feel as if he’s walking into a trap, he pushes himself over to Paul’s table.

Once he’s settled in, Paul tilts his chin at Daryl’s cup, “What are you drinking?”

“Um,” Daryl says, wondering if the flush in his cheeks is now permanent, “a caramel macchiato.”

“Sweet tooth?” Paul asks.

Daryl just hums while taking a frothy sip of caramel, secretly enjoying Paul’s quiet giggle.

“So,” Paul says.

“So,” Daryl repeats.

Paul asks, “How do you like being a barista?”

“I don’t,” Daryl grumbles, before answering louder, “It’s a job, I guess.”  
Paul furrows his eyebrows, “Why are you working here, then?”

“Got kicked out of my last job, I just needed somewhere to go. My friend Rick helped me get out, said there was good people here,” Daryl shrugs, “Trying to save up now.”

“Rick Grimes?” Paul asks. At Daryl’s nod, he continues, “He’s a good man.”

“A better man than most,” Daryl says.

Paul stares consideringly at him for a moment, and Daryl has to force himself not to ask what he’s thinking.

“You’re from Georgia?” he finally asks.

“Yeah, up north,” Daryl says, “‘ve never left the state.”

Paul’s eyebrows twitch up for a second but he doesn’t voice his surprise. Instead, he says, “I just moved back from Virginia.”

The two continue idly talking, the conversation flowing more easily than Daryl could ever remember with a stranger such as Paul. But without realizing, Daryl had filled up his entire half hour break with talking. The only person Daryl has ever been able to talk with for so long is Rick, but Rick never put butterflies in his stomach the same way Paul does.

As Daryl goes to stand up and return to work, he freezes when Paul stops him with a hand on his wrist. “Do you maybe want to get a drink later?” Paul asks.

Daryl’s breath stops for a second, frozen in shock. Paul waits patiently with his hand still gently on Daryl’s, not pushing for an answer. It’s the quiet calm that Paul gives him that makes it easy for Daryl to say, “Yeah, alright.”

Paul beams brightly back at him.

“I’ll see you back here at closing time again?” Paul asks.

Daryl nervously chews on his lip for a minute before nodding, offering Paul a shy quirk of his lips in return.

The rest of Daryl’s shift drags on, painfully nerve-racking thoughts piling up in his head. He doesn’t know if this is even considered a date, doesn’t know what to expect when he’s never really been on one, at least not as Daryl. Anything before his transition isn’t worth thinking about. But, then he’s stuck fearing for a future in which they’ve grown closer, and he’s going to eventually have to reveal his past to Paul. What if this date goes well, what if they go on more dates, what if Paul wants to take things further; what happens when Paul sees his scars?

These fears race around in Daryl’s head, a never ending spiral pushing him to cancel on Paul and hide in his apartment instead.

But, as soon Daryl leaves the café and sees Paul leaning up against the wall waiting for him, the chaos in his head starts to quiet. The warm smile Paul shows him helps slow his pounding heart. Daryl wipes his clammy shaking hands on his jeans before walking up to Paul, a small grin forming on his lips as the anxious butterflies in his stomach turn into an excited fluttering.

“Are you ready?” Paul asks.

Daryl decides it’s at least worth a shot, and nods his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumblr](http://hellagayjesus.tumblr.com)


	4. New Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daryl's life sucks. Except the part with Paul.

Daryl clutched his beat up duffle tightly as he followed Rick through the house. It wasn't big, but it seemed huge compared to the trailer he'd grown up in.

"This is your room." Rick opened a door, revealing a small bedroom. 

Rick gestured for Daryl to go into the room, but he hung back. He didn't like turning his back on anyone--especially not right now when he was one deep breath away from reopening the scabs crisscrossing his back. Thankfully Rick didn't do much more than frown at his hesitation.

"I'll just go back downstairs," Rick said awkwardly. "See what my dad is up to."

Daryl knew what his dad was up to. Sheriff Grimes was talking with the social worker from Child Protective Services about him and his family.

Fuck them.

Once Rick was out of sight Daryl finally entered the room. He made sure to close and lock the door before he let himself take in his new prison.

As far as prisons went he had to admit it was pretty fucking nice. There was a full bed with a mound of fluffy pillows--a far cry from his sagging twin bed and one flat pillow at home--where he tossed his duffle. There was a small desk under the window and a three-drawer dresser next to the closet. There was even a bookshelf with a few books on it. 

He lay down tentatively on the overly cheerful yellow bedspread and did his best to ignore how good the mattress was. It didn't matter how comfortable it was, he wasn't going to be here for long. 

**

It had taken two days for him to finally slip out from under the watchful gaze of Sheriff and Mrs. Grimes. Two long, miserable days without a smoke.

Thankfully Rick--who was turning out to be a lot less of a chump than Daryl had initially assumed he'd be--had taken pity on him. He'd convinced his parents that foster care didn't have to be a police state and that Daryl could take a fucking walk without a leash. He did have a ridiculously early curfew though. 

The Grimes house was in a shiny new suburb clear across town from his trailer park, but the town wasn't that big so it still hadn't take him long to make his way to the woods. 

Daryl hadn't intended to come here when he left the house, but his feet seemed to have a mind of their own and before he'd realized it he was already near the secluded clearing that until last week had been his private escape from the rest of the world. 

Everything had changed last week when his father had caught him out here with Paul. With every lash of his father's belt, he'd promised himself that he would never come back to this place. The scars on his back would be a constant reminder to stay the fuck away not just from the woods, but from Paul too. 

And yet despite all his promises, here he was less than a week later. Apparently he couldn't even stay away until the wounds healed.

He shifted on the fallen log that served as his seat and pulled the half crushed pack of cigarettes he'd managed to swipe out of his back pocket. He was careful not to twist his back--the last thing he needed was bloodstains on the new shirt Mrs. Grimes had given him. He'd probably be in enough trouble when he came back smelling like smoke.

Daryl opened the pack and pulled out a slightly bent cigarette. They were the cheap kind his father bought and he could have done without the reminder of the old bastard, but he needed the nicotine more.

His hands were shaking as he lit the cigarette. Between the social workers and the overly nosy Grimes family he'd gone way too long without his nicotine fix and it was killing him. 

One inhale had him instantly relaxing, which was a good thing because the rustling leaves told him his peace and quiet was about to be disturbed. 

Daryl should have known better than to think that he could come to this place without seeing Paul. What had been his own private place had gradually become theirs over the past few weeks--ever since he'd met the scrawny teen from the group home with the pretty blue eyes.

"Daryl?" Paul asked, when he was still just out of sight. 

Daryl tried to convince himself that he didn't want to see Paul, but his eyes were riveted to the edge of the clearing and his heart was beating faster just knowing that Paul was nearby.

When Paul finally broke through the tree line and saw Daryl, he rushed across the clearing and immediately dropped down onto the log next to him. He was sitting too close--he always did--but Daryl couldn't bring himself to push him away. He never could. That was why he was in this shitty situation to start with.

"Where have you been? I was worried." Paul leaned forward and threw his arms around Daryl in a hug that unfortunately pressed against several of the cuts on his back. 

Daryl hissed and jerked away from Paul. 

"Daryl?" Paul asked, his voice trembling a bit. "Did I do something wrong?"

Damn it. The last thing Daryl wanted was for Paul to think he was mad at him. As easy as it would be to blame Paul for all this shit, he didn't have it in him.

"Back hurts. Dad whooped me good." Daryl stared at the smoke rising from his half finished cigarette in order to avoid looking at Paul while he spoke. 

Paul took Daryl's free hand, lacing their fingers together. "I'm sorry."

The voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like his father was telling Daryl to let go of Paul's hand and maybe punch him for good measure. He hated that voice and so he did the opposite, gripping Paul's hand tighter like a lifeline.

"Was it because he saw us?"

Daryl didn't want to answer that question because it would hurt Paul. "I don't want to talk about it."

That was true enough, but unfortunately Paul saw right through the evasion. 

"I'm going to kill him," Paul said angrily and if Daryl didn't have a tight grip on his hand, he probably would have marched straight over to the trailer park and given the Dixon patriarch a piece of his mind.

Most of the time Paul was even-tempered and logical. Despite the shit storm that was his life, he usually kept a cool head and a sense of humor, but if he got mad enough you better look out. This was one of those times.

"Stop." Daryl pulled him down closer than before and gave into the urge to lean into him. "You going off half cocked won't do either of us any good. Besides it doesn't matter anymore."

"Why not?" There was still righteous anger in Paul's voice, but he'd relaxed against Daryl's side.

"Teacher found out," Daryl explained. He'd known that he should have just skipped school until his back was better--wasn't like he was going to graduate anyway--but he'd been afraid the truant officers would show up again and rile his dad back up. 

"Where did they take you?" Paul asked, quietly. He'd been in and out of the system for a long time and knew the drill when it came to this shit.

"Emergency placement with Sheriff Grimes," Daryl answered. He finished the cigarette, careful to blow the smoke away from Paul's face, and stubbed it out on the log next to him. "Don't know why he'd bother. He's been arresting my dad and brother for years. Gotta know I'm a lost cause."

Paul pulled away and sat up straight, turning his angry glare on Daryl. "You are not."

Daryl shrugged. It wasn't worth arguing over, but he still didn't know what Paul saw in him. Clearly the other boy saw something, though, and that felt good. "Won't matter anyway, once Merle gets out of juvie I'll go live with him."

Paul sighed and squeezed Daryl's hand. "Don't burn any bridges. You could do a lot worse than the Grimes family."

Paul's eyes were so sad and suddenly Daryl felt guilty for being pissed about a curfew. Paul didn't talk a lot about his various foster homes, but Daryl knew they had all ended badly. Now he'd been in the system so long that they didn't even try to place him anymore. 

"Come here," Daryl said. He cupped Paul's face with his hand and pulled him forward into a brief, gentle kiss. He leaned their foreheads together. "You always got me."

No matter how hard he'd tried, his father hadn't actually been able to beat the gay out of Daryl and for the first time in his life Daryl was okay with that. Part of him still wanted to run scared and pretend that Paul didn't mean the world to him, but that part was easy to ignore when Paul was right here in front of him. 

Paul smiled. "And you always have me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: references to child abuse


	5. 16 Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daryl gets a new cellmate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _(With thanks to MyPinkCactus and GabbyD.)_  
>  Quick lexicon for non-U.S. readers...   
> fish: new prisoner  
> SHU: solitary confinement  
> C.O.: correctional officer, i.e. prison guard  
> rec: free time  
> fencing: reselling stolen goods  
> max: a maximum security prison, where prisoners have fewer freedoms  
> shiv: blade fashioned in prison from random objects, like sharpened toothbrushes or bits of metal  
> smack: heroin
> 
> *Please check end notes for trigger warnings*

**Day 0**

 

Daryl doesn’t think twice about Dwight being transferred to a different cell block until fucking Rick Grimes mentions it during his monthly visit.

“Heard you got a new cellmate.”

“How the hell did you hear that? They just moved Dwight yesterday.”

“I have my ways,” the police officer says evasively. “How’s the new one working out?”

“Don’t got anyone in with me yet, but there’s a bunch of new fishes in the holding tank.” He pauses, narrowing his eyes. “You have something to do with Dwight’s transfer, Grimes?”

“Least I could do,” Rick says after a minute, shrugging. “Since you won’t let me help you in any other way.”

“Nah, the least you could do is fuck off,” Daryl replies, but he can’t quite hide the gratitude in his voice. Officer Grimes has done alright by him, and living with someone who reported directly to the Governor had been shit.

Daryl figures he’s at least earned the right to be left alone.

 

**Day 1**

 

His new cellmate is fucked.

Or, more accurately, he’s going to end up _being_ fucked. He’s exactly what the perverts call ‘fresh meat’: small, pretty, with big eyes and long lashes. He’s even got long hair, for Christ’s sake.

Paul Rovia sticks out in Terminus Prison like a sore thumb.

Prison is going to be hell on earth for this guy.

Daryl tells himself it’s not his problem, that he should mind his own business. His own reputation will only keep him safe in here for so long.

 

**Day 2**

 

“You’re shitting me.”

Usually Daryl isn’t chatty, but getting to know a new cellmate is a matter of survival, so he keeps up his part of the conversation while he evaluates the likelihood of Paul slitting his throat slit in his sleep.

“I’m not!” Paul protests with a grin. He’d been doing sweaty sit-ups in the cell, but now he’s just leaning against the wall.

So far his cellmate is an arrogant asshole, but he doesn’t seem violent and he’s kind of funny. Daryl knows he could do a lot worse.

“Nah, you are. Ain’t no fucking way. Climbed to the fifth floor without a ladder, rope, or some kinda pipe? What, like Spiderman?” The fish must be trying to establish some kind of street cred, to appear more impressive than he is.

Well, he’s going to need it.

“I swear to you, I can do it. Not on a glass wall, but anything with halfway decent hand-holds, even just windows, I can climb. I’d show you in the yard, but one of the guards would probably shoot me down.”

“Yeah, good call.” Daryl doesn’t believe a word of it, but he humors Paul anyway. “So how’d you learn all this ninja bullshit?”

“I did gymnastics and martial arts as a kid, parkour as a teen. The group home was next to a YMCA, and there were actually some pretty good teachers there.”

“The YMCA taught you how to be a fancy cat burglar art thief.” He can’t keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

Paul laughs and leans forward to punch his leg lightly. The contact startles him. “It did. I’ll prove it to you somehow, Dixon. I’m _very_ good at what I do.”

Daryl turns away, blushing.

“What are you in for?” Paul asks.

“Murder.” Might as well be blunt about it. “Killed my father.”

“Really? What happened?”

“The fuck you think happened? It ain’t complicated.”

“So why’re you in here instead of max?” Curious blue eyes watch him carefully.

“Good lawyer,” Daryl grunts. Another thing he owes Grimes for. “Now shut your trap, Rovia, I’m going to sleep.” He pulls his shirt off and moves to brush his teeth.

Paul’s eyes catch and hold on the scars across his back but he doesn’t say anything, so apparently he _can_ keep quiet when he wants to.

 

**Day 3**

 

Daryl isn’t there to see it, but apparently some smartass comment lands Paul in the SHU for 24 hours before his first week in prison is up.

Big Tiny laughs about it when he tells the story at dinner. Daryl pokes at his watery mashed potatoes and smirks in spite of himself. Implying that old Warden Greene’s ‘piece’ isn’t ‘loaded’ anymore wasn’t exactly a clever joke, but he’s willing to bet C.O. Rhee’s reaction was fucking priceless.

Paul is definitely posturing, and it’s not a bad strategy—most prisoners, Big Tiny included, will like you a little better if you give the guards some crap from time to time.

It’s nice to have the cell to himself for a night. Daryl uses the relative privacy to jerk off, trying hard to keep his mind blank as he touches himself.

 

**Day 4**

_Little shit is going to get himself killed or worse_ , Daryl thinks, watching as Ford, one of the guards, escorts his cellmate back towards their cell. Paul is a head shorter and a lot leaner than almost every single meathead catcalling him, but he seems completely unintimidated by their leering as he’s walked along the corridor that leads back from the SHU.

Paul smiles at Daryl as he gets closer, rolling his eyes at the attention.

Damn it. Daryl can't help but like him.

As always, he hates himself for it.

 

**Day 5**

 

Paul barely makes it into the yard for rec the next day when three of the prison's biggest assholes, Gorman, Martin, and of their babyface ringleader Gareth, herd him into a blind corner.

Scowling, telling himself he’ll only do this once, Daryl meanders towards the blind spot as if by accident.

The bastards are still playing with their prey, standing around in a vaguely threatening half-circle. Gareth is toe-to-toe with him, looking positively ravenous.

"Take a walk, Dixon," Gorman spits as soon as Daryl walks into view.

"Fuck off, I'm meeting my dealer here." Daryl leans against the brick wall, pretending complete disinterest in the others but ready to fight if he has to.

This time, his presence is enough—they grumble, one of them musses Paul’s hair roughly, but they leave. These pricks are cowards, the lowest of the low. They won’t take unnecessary risks, and pissing Daryl off certainly qualifies.

Daryl breathes out slowly and tugs a cigarette from his pocket.

Paul doesn't even seem phased. "Dealer, huh? What kind of product could he get me?"

Daryl turns to tell him to shut the fuck up and sees the guy pulling his hair into some kind of bun on top of his head. Fucking hell, how stupid can one person be?

"You should cut that," he grunts, gesturing.

"My hair? Why?" He gives Daryl a little half-smile. Probably smirking at the idea of the grimy redneck checking him out.

Daryl glares at his feet. He doesn’t know how to say _"Because as soon as they get the chance, those pricks are going to grab you by that hair, pull you into a dark corner, and rape you.”_

Instead he says, "Too noticeable. Gets attention."

“I think I'm ok. But thanks for the fashion advice."

Oh god, he's short, pretty, _and_ thinks he’s tough. Kid's going to get eaten alive.

Daryl tells himself again that he doesn't care.

 

**Day 6**

 

He still finds himself keeping an eye out for his idiot cellmate.

Shit, it’s not like he has anything better to do.

 

**Day 7**

After just a week, Daryl can’t deny that he likes Paul better than he should, so he does his best to ignore him when they’re stuck inside the cell together. It's easy enough. Daryl's spent his whole life training himself to ignore guys like that, guys that draw his eye a little too much.

Apparently Paul doesn’t like being ignored, though, because he does not seem to want to shut up. He jabbers on about his fencing contacts and jobs he’s pulled. If half of what he says is true then he would be a goldmine for Merle, exactly what the Governor’s organization is looking for in Atlanta.

Leaning back on his bunk, Daryl thinks idly about making the introduction, but decides against it.

He doesn’t owe Merle a fucking thing.

“Could you shut the fuck up? I’m trying to read,” Daryl says, and Paul finally shuts his mouth.

Later, though, Daryl follows his cellmate to the mess hall—and sure enough, Gareth and his crew step out menacingly from around a corner near the laundry a second after Paul walks by.

Yet again, they don’t try any shit with Daryl there, but Gareth eyes them suspiciously as they pass.

Paul casually scratches his ear with his middle finger. It’s not obvious enough for one of the goons to pick a fight over it, but Gorman sees and clenches his jaw in frustration.

Once they round another corner, Daryl punches Paul in the arm, hard. The moron just grins at him.

Trying to keep Paul out of trouble helps him avoid thinking about his own shit, the eight years left on his sentence and the poor chances that Merle will even still be alive when he gets out. Daryl knows that’s part of it.

But with Paul grinning stupidly at him, he realizes that he also doesn’t want to see this place beat the other man down, turn him into a shell or a ghost the way it does some men—the way it had Merle, and his daddy, and every other idiot Dixon that had gotten involved with the Governor and lost years of their life to the system because of it.

 

**Day 8**

 

During rec, Daryl usually works out in the yard or reads in his cell or the library. The librarian, Axel, is just about the only person he’s friendly with in the whole damn place.

The Governor’s gang tried to buddy up with him, especially Dwight and Martinez, but he shut that down straight off. He knows they still keep watch over him; it’s their asses on the line if anything happens to him in here.

Now Paul is almost always somewhere nearby as well, usually talking Daryl’s ear off, asking questions, bragging about his own past exploits. Daryl can’t exactly blame him—it’s safest.

But then occasionally Paul disappears, and when Daryl finds him again he’s someplace he has no business being. He talks some to Martinez and Schumpert, encroaching on space usually reserved for the Governor’s stooges. He lounges around near the warden’s office one day, then by the door to the visiting rooms. Guards are always shooing him off to the yard.

Inevitably, he gets another day in the SHU for somehow winding up in a restricted area without permission.

Daryl jerks off again that night. He’s too tired to pretend, so he lets himself think about Paul’s mouth while he does it. When he comes, he imagines it streaking his face.

He doesn’t know why the other man is getting under his skin so much. Sure, he’s pretty, but it’s more than that—more shameful than that.

Daryl could forgive himself if he just wanted to fuck the guy.

 

**Day 9**

 

For that first week Daryl figured that maybe Paul was sneaking around the prison to avoid Gareth's psychos. It would be the smart play.

At other times, though, Paul seems stupidly negligent of them. Sometimes he seems to be spoiling for a fight, even when outnumbered three or four to one.

The next time Daryl steps in, it’s only Gareth and Gorman messing with him, following him to the showers close to the end of rec time. They're smirking like sharks when they pass the cell a few seconds after Paul saunters out with his towel.

If the kid had any goddamn sense he'd shower early, when there were plenty of others around.

Sighing, Daryl grabs his towel and sandals.

By the time he gets to the bathrooms, Paul is against the wall with one arm twisted behind him. He's still talking calmly somehow, not begging, and Daryl's impressed in spite of himself.

"Man, can't you do that shit in your own cell?" Daryl says loudly, tossing his towel on a bench and moving to one of the shower heads.

Gorman startles and lets go of the kid's arm. Gareth spins around and glares. “How many times you gonna stick your nose in, Dixon? Huh? Is the little bitch even putting out for you?” His snakelike eyes dart to where Paul is stepping away from the pair, and it’s clear he wants to snatch him back. “You could get in on this, man. I can share.”

"I'm looking to get in on a fucking shower, dickwad. Leave me outta your shit."

Again, the bastards are too afraid of a fair-ish fight to risk it. They sulk their way out of the room, Gorman knocking heavily into Daryl's shoulder as he goes.

Paul still doesn’t look shaken up, and Daryl’s beginning to wonder if he even understands what exactly Gareth and his dogs are after.

"They think you're a punk,” he says gruffly, stripping and turning on the ice cold shower. Beside him, Paul does the same. “Gareth and his gang. Should keep outta their way, man.”

"Um." Paul gives him a blank look.

Daryl keeps his eyes above shoulder level and explains, “A fag. He thinks you're a fag.”

There’s a long pause. Daryl scrubs his hair roughly.

"I am," Paul says finally, obviously angry. “So fucking what?”

Daryl whips his head around to make sure no one's walked in in the last few seconds. "Jesus Christ. Don't matter if you are or you ain't. Unless you wanna be a fag with _him_ in particular, or one of the other sacks of shit around here, keep that to yourself and stay the fuck away from him."

Paul cocks his head curiously. For a moment Daryl thinks he’s been too transparent, that the other man has him figured out, but Paul only says, "You _are_ following me around." When Daryl doesn't respond, he adds with a huff, "I can take care of myself."

Snorting, Daryl towels off, keeping his gaze directly in front of him.

 

**Day 10**

 

One thing Daryl’s realizing about Rick Grimes is, he does not know when to quit.

“You shouldn’t _be_ in there,” he says for about the millionth time, this time over the phone. Daryl isn’t sure why he calls the policeman anymore, but Grimes asked him to do it every now and then, so he does whenever Merle’s too busy for their weekly talks. “You wouldn’t even have to mention Merle’s name, just testify to what your father was like when you were a kid. That combined with the evidence of self-defense, a judge might-”

“Trial’s over, Grimes.”

The frustrated sigh sounds like static over the shitty connection. “Merle should be the one-”

“Man, you think they’d have let Merle off the hook this easy? Reduced sentence, medium security…” Daryl snaps his mouth shut. He has to be more careful; Grimes is a cop, not his friend.

“I know you didn’t do it. It was obvious from the second I arrived at the scene.”

It’s weird as fuck, but he thinks maybe Rick likes him. Not in a queer way, the man is married with a kid. Just like… bros or something.

Daryl sighs, pinching his brow. “I did it, Rick. Don’t matter what you think you know, I’m guilty as charged.”

There’s a long silence; Daryl knows better than to think he’s convinced the other man.

“How’s the new cellie working out?”

Jesus, no one actually says ‘cellie.’ “Better than Dwight.”

Rick just snorts and changes the subject again, telling him how Dale and Jim from the garage are doing. They found a replacement for him. It makes Daryl sad to think about, but he knows from the times Merle’s been locked up that that’s how prison is. The world keeps spinning without you.

 

**Day 11**

 

Twice more Daryl stops his cellmate from getting his ass beat or worse, no longer bothering to pretend it’s accidental when Albert gets in his face about it later.

"Man, you got pansies willing to fuck you for protection already, why you gotta go after him?"

"Boss likes him," Albert shrugs. "So mind your own business. Being Merle Dixon’s baby brother isn’t gonna block a shiv."

“Nah, but it’ll make damn sure the bastards who get me are next in the ground,” Daryl sneers, and turns to walk away.

Two steps and he’s nearly jumping out of his skin—Paul is leaning against a wall right around the corner. He falls into step, and they walk together in silence for a few minutes.

“I really can look after myself,” Paul finally says. Daryl's skepticism must be obvious, because Paul scowls at him and crosses his arms over his chest. "I can. I don't need a guard dog.”

“Done told you, I ain't following you.”

“You are," Paul teases, lips curving into a smile. "You aren't very good at it. I could teach you some tips if you like."

"You'll teach me to follow you better, huh?” There's a weird edge to the conversation that Daryl doesn't understand. He doesn’t like it. “What, you got a posse watching your back now? Some kinda faggot gang?”

They step into their cell. “Do you really have to use that word?”

“Faggot?”

“Yeah. That.” Paul stares up at him, all signs of flirting gone.

“Why not? You said you were queer.”

“Yeah, well, neither of those words is exactly my label of choice.”

“What the fuck does it matter what I call it? You like sucking dick.” Daryl feels his face flush. "Or whatever."

“A lot of people find those word offensive, Dixon. Come on, you have to know that.”

“Rose by any other name, man." Shrugging, Daryl turns to pick up his book.

Paul lets the topic drop. "What are you reading?"

Daryl holds it up for him to see.

"Forest Plants of the Southeast and Their Wildlife Uses," Paul reads aloud. "Huh. Seriously?"

"What?" Daryl frowns at the book, not sure what's wrong with it.

"Just... unexpected."

"The hell'd you expect, then?"

"So is it any good, then, Forest Plants of the Southeast and Their Wildlife Uses? Should I check it out next?"

The teasing tone is back, and it doesn't escape Daryl that the snarky bastard didn’t answer his question.

"Nah. Book's bullshit,” he replies, even though he knows Paul is just messing with him. He’s wanted to vent to someone about the fucking book for days, and Merle hadn’t answered the phone.

"Oh yeah? How come?"

That smile, the way Paul leans in close to examine the book—Daryl hates it. His whole body floods with adrenaline as he replies, “S'got mistakes."

"Like what?"

Shifting away slightly, Daryl flips back through the pages. "Like, this plant? Says it blooms in June. Load of crap. It blooms in late July unless it's a real hot year. And for this one," he flips to another entry, “it says the flowers are white or yellow. No mention of the orange ones. See? Bullshit. There's more, too."

Glancing up, Daryl sees that Paul's expression is... odd. It clears after a minute and he laughs, jostling Daryl with his shoulder. "What, were you some kind of florist before? A park ranger?"

Defensive, Daryl scowls."I hunted. Spent a lot of time in the woods." He doesn't say how much he loved it, how closely he always observed the plants and wildlife. How he'd sketch those same flowers sometimes, when he was a kid.

Just remembering the peaceful feeling it gave him back then depresses him, caged as he is now.

They're quiet for a couple of seconds, and when he looks up, Paul's expression has softened. "Show me the rest."

"Huh?"

"The other mistakes in the book. I want to see them."

"Why?" Daryl asks, eyes narrowing.

"I just... want to see."

So Daryl shows him.

 

**Day 12**

 

The next day they’re playing chess when Paul brings up another uncomfortable topic.

“So… your brother.”

Right, Paul had heard him talking to Albert. “What, you know him?”

"Know of him," Paul says. “Everyone does. You don't seem- don't be offended, but you aren't even close to what I'd expect from Merle Dixon’s brother. I didn’t even realize you were from _that_ Dixon family until yesterday.”

Daryl suspects that’s a lie—his connections are well known around the prison—but he doesn’t call his cellmate on it. He's far too used to this, being judged against his family and found wanting. “Yeah, well. Merle always says he knew from the time I was three that I didn’t have what it takes to be some kinda hit man or," he waves a hand at Paul, "fancy burglar, whatever. I just wanted to be left alone, you know? Worked in a garage, was trying to save up to buy my own place someday.”

"So you two aren't close?" Paul leans forward, intent, elbows on his knees. It’s his turn to move. Daryl has to prompt him to look at the board.

“Nah, we’re close."

"And he’s—Merle Dixon, the right-hand man of one of the biggest mobsters in the state—you two are close, but he’s a-ok with you not doing him… you know, favors?” Paul’s eyebrows are high, challenging. “You just live your own life, and no one gives you crap about not supporting the family business?"

So apparently Paul's heard all about his daddy and uncle, too. Sighing, Daryl moves another piece on the board. “Told you, he knows I ain’t the kind. Merle practically raised me, even made me finish high school—first Dixon in history to do it, probably.” Daryl sucks his teeth before admitting, “He says I’m too fucking soft.”

"So he never wanted you in the business in the first place. He's... he's a bad man but a good brother.”

Frowning at the inquisition, Daryl decides he’s had enough. He leans back. "Checkmate, by the way. Shoulda paid closer attention.”

"Yeah, I should have,” Paul murmurs. He looks distracted, clearly thinking of something else.

 

**Day 13**

 

Paul spends the whole of rec time the next day wandering the yard talking to other people. For once he stays out in the open, with lots of people around, so Daryl just sits against a wall in the sunshine and tries to finish his shitty book. He’s tempted to write in corrections, but marking up the book might get Axel in trouble.

It looks like Paul’s trying to get chatty with Martinez and Schumpert again. That’s good, he needs more friends in here. Martinez is a smart choice, too. People have noticed that Daryl and Paul eat meals together—that’ll help Paul get in with the Governor’s crew, even if Daryl himself is standoffish.

Daryl doesn’t admit to himself that he feels lonely without the chatty man hanging around him. He knows he probably offended Paul with that ‘faggot’ comment, even it he’d been cool about it yesterday. The other man has no way of knowing that Daryl’s a fag as well.

Daryl kind of wants to tell him.

He shuts down the impulse immediately. He knows where it comes from, and where he wants it to go.

If Paul know’s he’s a fag, too, then Paul might- he might want-

Turning onto his stomach, Daryl stubbornly focuses on the book.

He’s interrupted moments later by Paul rushing towards him.

“Dixon! You need to- Martinez, he just told me-”

But he doesn’t get any farther than that. Ford steps over behind him, radio crackling in his hand. “Shut it, Rovia. Dixon, up. I’m supposed to take you to the Warden's office,” he says. Daryl barely has time to register the look Paul gives him—he's visibly anxious, maybe even upset—before Ford is pulling him along.

Daryl shakes him off and walks in front of him. Another guard, Stookey, cuffs his hands before letting him in to see Warden Greene, who’s sitting solemnly at his desk.

"Sit down, son," the old man says, rising.

_Son?_

To Daryl's utter confusion, the Warden walks out of the room. He’s left alone in the office.

A moment later Grimes steps in. Stupidly, Daryl wonders why he’s two weeks early for his visit.

“Daryl," Grimes says, and Daryl knows just by the tone that he doesn't want to hear the rest. The officer keeps talking anyway. "I'm so sorry, Daryl, but Merle- we don't know what happened, but he's been found. His... his body’s been found. We’re investigating, but it looks like…”

Daryl doesn't remember the rest of the conversation. He doesn’t remember crying, or Rick gripping his shoulder, or Stookey uncuffing him and sending him back into the main prison.

He doesn't remember trading his whole stash of cigs to score smack from the cholos in the west bathroom.

The next thing Daryl knows, it’s just after lockdown and he’s pushing Paul against their cell wall and shoving his tongue in that soft mouth.

“No, no, calm down," Paul murmurs, turning his face away. He won't let Daryl kiss him but he's not fighting him, either. Daryl's larger body covers his, pressing him against the wall, hard dick against Paul’s stomach.

Daryl is far too fucked up to think about anything besides how badly he wants this.

Paul’s not hard, but Daryl knows he can fix that. He tries to kiss him again. Paul gently cups his face, forcing his head back to he can look into Daryl’s blown eyes. “What did you take? Can you tell me that? I need to know how much, if I should get you to the clinic-”

Daryl drops to his knees and paws at the front of the other man’s uniform, but Paul just follows him down, kneeling beside him. "I know, Daryl. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Come on, calm down. That’s not- not what you need right now.”

It doesn't register that there's no way Paul _can_ know--how could he? The only thing that registers is that it's the first time his cellmate has called him by his first name.

Tears come, sudden and unexpected. He’s too high to stop them, all his inhibitions melted away, and he sobs like a child. Paul positions himself against the wall with Daryl's head in his lap and lets him cry into his shirt.

“M’brother died,” Daryl chokes out finally.

Paul just nods. “I’m sorry. I know you loved him. And he must have loved you, too. I’m- I’m so sorry, Daryl.”

He cries some more, coming down from the drug. After making him stand at the sink and guzzle down some coppery water, Paul puts him into his bunk and sits on the ground beside him, not talking, just combing a hand absently through his hair.

Embarrassment starts crawling its way up Daryl’s spine. He’s letting another man pet him, for fuck’s sake.

People had probably heard them.

In a few hours it doesn’t matter anymore, though. Paul’s taken away the next day.

 

 

**Day 14**

 

Ford fetches him from the cell before breakfast. Through a horrific headache Daryl watches them go, surprised by the sad look he gets from Paul.

He doesn’t have the energy to care. The guards won’t let him sleep through breakfast so he stumbles through it, not eating, then collapses into his bunk.

It’s not visiting day, but just before lunch Daryl is led to the visiting room anyway. He’s high again, so he walks like a fucking zombie.

He’s the only prisoner in there. Rick waits at a table with a couple of Subway sandwiches and paper cups of water.

“Daryl, no. Don’t do this,” he says immediately, looking horrified and rushing forward. Daryl wonders what he sees: red eyes, oversized pupils, pale and clammy skin? Probably all three. Rick is a good cop, he knows that first hand.

The thought pisses Daryl off.

“Why’re you always so goddamn interfering, Grimes, huh? You just met me, you ain’t _kin_ or-” Daryl breaks off. He wants to shove the other man, hit him, but somewhere in his head he knows he owes Rick better than that. He’d be in a maximum security lockup, maybe even death row, without the officer’s help.

“That’s true, I’m not. But I am your friend, Daryl. I know the kind of man you are, who you've tried to be in spite of your _kin_ , and I admire that man. Don't let this place take him from you, especially now.”

“What's so fucking special about now?”

Rick sighs and gestures to the chair. “I’ve got some things to explain about Paul Rovia. Think you’re sober enough to pay attention?”

Electing not to answer that, Daryl sits. He’s not hungry, but he picks at the sandwich while Rick talks.

“I’m gonna start from the beginning. You good? Need a soda, or something else with some sugar? Ok. Now remember I just got briefed on some of this last night—some of it I knew for awhile.” The officer fidgets uncomfortably and pulls out some notes. Daryl gets the feeling he doesn’t want to look at him. “Probably won’t surprise you that the FBI’s got an active investigation into the Governor and his boss, a man named Negan. The murder of someone as high up in the organization as Will Dixon brought them swarming. And when you confessed so quickly, with no personal history of violence, they decided that you were most likely covering for someone higher up in the organization with a record. Merle was the obvious option.”

Rick pauses, giving him a hard look. When Daryl doesn’t react, he continues, “So they thought that you might be a weak link, someone stuck in prison for a crime he didn’t commit—someone they could flip to testify against the Governor. But they went wrong thinking your father’s death was a hit, something professional. Coldblooded.”

It’s hard to care about all of this, but he assumes Rick will eventually tell him why Merle was murdered, so he tries to stay focused. “So what you’re saying is, you’re better at this than a pack of feds.” Daryl snorts weakly.

Rick doesn’t smile. “I told our liaison that I thought they had it wrong, that I didn’t think you were involved with the Governor. Told them that however clean the scene looked, I suspected Merle’s reasons were, uh, personal rather than professional. But they had this famous profiler, Jacqui Johnson, pushing them, and her research said you were likely a silent partner, maybe using the garage to launder money.” Rick looks away quickly. “Her profile said you were, uh, kind of a loner. You know, no girlfriends.”

The implication takes awhile to penetrate Daryl’s hazy mind. When it does he knows he should be angry, but instead he wants to laugh. Maybe it’s the drugs. “So they sent in a fa- an FBI agent to pump me for information. _That’s_ why Dwight was moved, so Rovia could charm some answers outta me, right? Christ.”

He remembers Paul asking questions about his past, always seeming more interested in Daryl himself than the answer. Remembers Paul talking up his own skills, his contacts in Atlanta, making himself look like an investment while distracting him with light punches and claps on the shoulder. And he remembers how startling the gentle touches had felt after months of being jostled or shoved as his only human contact.

Rick winces but doesn’t argue.

Between Merle’s death and the smack in his system, Daryl isn’t sure he even gives a shit about being played for a fool. “Hell, it worked, too. He just didn’t get the answers he expected.”

“I tried to tell him. I didn’t get a chance to brief him before he went undercover, but I managed to get a meeting with him once, when he was supposedly in solitary. He’d already gotten some information from Martinez to confirm that Merle was the one who killed your father, so he signaled the guards to pull him out so he could update his team. But he was still convinced you were involved somehow.”

“Him informing on Merle- that’s why they killed my brother, ain’t it? The feds started sniffing around?” There’s fury gathering in Daryl’s voice.

Rick douses it before it can grow. “No. They weren’t going to make a move until they had more information from you. Merle… he was going to turn himself in, Daryl. He couldn’t live with himself, knowing you were in here. The Governor found out somehow, then killed him to keep him quiet.”

Daryl shoves himself away from the table and turns blindly towards the door back to the prison. Ford’s right outside and stops him before he can get anywhere, lets him slump down against the wall of the corridor, and Rick crouches beside him. “You’re getting out of here, Daryl—because of Merle. Ok? He wrote it all down. What happened to you as a kid, how he found out about it that night. How and why he shot Will Dixon. Between that and Martinez spilling to that FBI agent, you’re getting out of here. Merle made sure you’d be able to go free. The paperwork will go through tomorrow, maybe the next day at the latest.”

Daryl doesn’t say anything. He’s not sure he even wants out anymore. It will just make Merle’s death more real.

He realizes suddenly that he doesn’t have a family. The Dixons have finally self-destructed.

“Search his cell,” Rick tells Ford as the beefy redheaded man helps Daryl up. “He got a hold of some kind of drug.”

 

**Day 15**

 

Ford finds the smack but it doesn’t matter, it’s easy enough to get more. Daryl shoots up right after breakfast, because why the fuck not.

Gareth's boys grab him less than an hour later as he's walking past the laundry. They pull him inside, at least six of them. Laundry shifts don’t start until the afternoon so the place is empty.

"You seriously going to do this? Man, you know Martinez and them'll cut you down," Daryl spits. His words are slurring, and he feels loose and slow. He gets an arm free and manages a weak punch at Gordon, but someone else restrains him again within seconds.

He wants to say more, make more empty threats, but then a dirty undershirt is being forced into his mouth and knotted behind his head.

"You didn't hear? Merle turned on the Governor. Got himself killed,” Gareth whispers from behind him. He licks his ear, then continues speaking quietly into it. “They don't give a shit about you anymore, baby brother.”

Then Daryl's being shoved to the ground and held there. Hands are at his shoulders and waist, and at least one of the men has a shiv. Daryl curls on his side and someone kicks him in the gut, then the side of the head.

He thrashes wildly, knowing it's pointless but unable to stop fighting. A sharp, animalistic noise comes from his throat.

It’s possible that he blacks out for a second because all at once he can move again, and Paul and Ford are standing over him, beating the shit out of Gareth and his goons. Paul, or whatever his real name is, takes out four of them on his own with some kind of crazy karate moves. Ford just pepper sprays Gareth and tazes another gorilla, with a lazy, “Mm-hmm, fresh roasted chestnuts just in time for the holidays.”

Paul leans over Daryl, brow creased, and it occurs belatedly to Daryl that he might be hallucinating or unconscious. He doesn’t mind if he is. It’s undoubtedly more pleasant than whatever Gareth and his boys are doing to his body right now.

“Guess you can take care of yourself after all,” Daryl slurs up at his former cellmate, just before passing out.

 

**Day 16**

 

He wakes up in the SHU. His head is bandaged and there’s a tray of food on the floor, what passes for menudo and rice with mushy carrots on the side.

The smell alone makes him throw up. He flushes his vomit, then the food.

There’s no way of knowing what time it is, so Daryl goes back to sleep on the plastic bunk.

He wakes up when the fake Paul Rovia steps into the tiny cell. He’s wearing in slacks and a nice blue button down, a stark contrast to Daryl’s bloodstained gray prison scrubs.

His hair is also in that damn messy bun again. Daryl hates how good it looks.

“How are you feeling?” not-Paul asks. He’s carrying a tray of food and sets it on the floor beside the bed before leaning against the opposite wall. “I wanted to say again, I’m- I’m so sorry about your brother. I wish we’d approached him directly, offered protective custody.”

Daryl gags at the smell of the meal, but manages not to throw up.

“You should be released later today. You probably figured this out already, but after what happened yesterday, you’re in solitary for your own protection. The doctor said you were fine, you just needed to sleep off the heroin.” He has the gall to sound disapproving. Daryl imagines kicking him in the nuts. “They’ll take you straight from here to processing as soon as the documentation of the court order for your release arrives.”

The man pauses, trying to meet Daryl’s eyes, so Daryl looks away, glaring vaguely at the door. He still doesn’t answer. Maybe it’s childish but he can’t help it—his pride is stinging. He’d stuck his neck out for this guy and it had all been a set-up. Hell, he had probably been laughing at Daryl the whole time, the stupid redneck who thought a damn FBI agent wanted him hanging around.

“Officer Grimes says your old boss—Dale, right?—is ready to hire you back. Apparently your replacement was a shitty mechanic. Do you have enough money for a hotel or something, until you get settled again?”

“Like you ain’t seen my bank account?” Daryl rasps, finally goaded into a response. “Look, Paul, or whoever the hell-”

“It is Paul… um. Paul Monroe.”

“Great. Nice to meet you,” Daryl snarls impatiently. “Look, why’re you here? Ri- Officer Grimes said y’all know I ain’t no use as a witness, Merle and my daddy never told me shit about the Governor’s business. You already knew I didn’t kill nobody. So why’re you still trying to play nice or- or whatever the fuck it is you think you’re doing with me now? I can’t help your investigation.”

Paul is eyeing him intently, blue-green eyes wide. “Ah. Well. It’s not my investigation anymore, for one thing. I’m being reassigned after I’m deposed regarding your innocence in your father’s murder. I, uh. I blew my cover. When Martinez spilled that the Governor was going to order a hit on your brother—he wanted me to know you wouldn’t be protected anymore, probably trying to intimidate me into joining them officially—I just- well, you remember. I ran straight to you rather than signaling the guards to pull me out.” Paul bites his lip. “I knew you could call him directly, that you had a better chance of warning him in time than law enforcement. It was… impulsive. They won’t trust me again, and now the Governor’s men know my face. Agent Espinosa and her team take over next week.”

“You- you tried to save Merle?”

Paul nods slowly. “Obviously Martinez had old information, didn’t realize the hit had already gone down. I’m- I’m sorry. I keep thinking if I’d focused on ingratiating myself with them instead of-”

“Instead of making bedroom eyes at me,” Daryl supplies, more bitterly than he intends. Paul had tried to save Merle. It had been too late, but he’d tried.

“Daryl…” the agent begins awkwardly, but Daryl cuts him off again.

“Nah, I get it, alright? I know it weren’t personal. The Governor’s a piece of shit, you were trying to stop him.” Taking a deep breath and wishing he’d rinsed out his mouth more thoroughly after throwing up, Daryl finally meets Paul’s eyes. “We’re good, man.”

Paul smiles. “That’s… I’m glad. Thank you.” He turns towards the door.

Daryl shifts on the bunk, leaning his head against the wall. It still hurts something awful. Maybe he’ll try to get some more sleep before they come to let him out.

Christ, they’re really letting him go. He’s going to be free again, eight years sooner than he’d ever dared to hope. He’d be back in the Georgia wilds before bear hunting season ended. For the first time, he feels a flicker of warmth over that.

Paul stops suddenly at the door. For a moment he stands still, facing away, then he twists to look back at Daryl. “Listen, I work in Atlanta, and I- I… fuck it. Do you want to have coffee sometime?”

Blinking, Daryl wonders if he’s hearing this right.

“I know, I know, and you can punch me if I’m reading this wrong, but- but it’s all above board, ok? You can’t testify against the Governor. I’m off the case regardless. And most of what I told you about myself in there wasn’t actually a lie… besides, well, the obvious. So if you don’t completely hate me-”

Daryl throws back his aching head and laughs.

Eventually, when he can speak again, he says yes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings:  
> Prison, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Some Violence, Minor Character Death, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, Drug Use


	6. Human lives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daryl knows he’s not good. He’s gluttony and greed as he steals kisses, wanting more and more and more, lust as his hands tug at the waistband of Paul’s jeans. There’s wrath in his knuckles, though he hides it by brushing them gently over Paul’s cheek.  
> He’s no good for no angel.  
> But they’re human now

 

‘This is not a game, Daryl!’ Paul snaps. ‘We’re running out of time!’

‘So?’ Daryl is sitting under a tree, enjoying the light breeze and shade. He’s always been fond of trees, of course. And the fruits they bear. ‘We’ve had centuries. You ain’t ready now, you ain’t ever gonna be ready.’

‘Are  _you_  ready?’ Paul challenges. He kneels down before the other, urging him to meet his eyes. ‘Do you even realize what will happen when this all ends?’

Daryl lights a cigarette that will scar his lungs but it doesn’t matter anymore now. There are scars on the inside and outside of this body, but it has served him well enough. Sometimes it was too slow, other times too clunky, or not growing fast enough for his liking, but he’s grown rather fond of it by now. He lets the smoke spill over his lips, a sharp puff of tainted air that causes some strands of hair to drift out of his small eyes. ‘Same shit as always.’

‘We’re getting close to the end, you  _must_  feel it,’ Paul urges. ‘What if this is the last time? Look at the world! Humanity is on its last legs.’

‘Maybe we won’t be human next time,’ Daryl muses. He gets to his feet but stays low, crouched, and then pounces on his friend with a low growl. ‘Bet you’d be a fox,’ he says when he gets Paul on his back beneath him. There’s no point in trying to pin the other man down. He’s lost count of how many times he has escaped him.

‘Daryl,’ Paul breathes. ‘What if they send us  _home_?’

Fear trickles down Daryl’s spine. ‘What?’

‘What if they decide that our work here is done, that this is it and now we just have to wait until it all ends and… what if they don’t send us back but make us go home instead?’

‘They can’t.’ Daryl sits up, one of his knees on either side of Paul, most of his weight resting on the man’s hips. One hand finds its way to his chest, feeling that fragile heart beat. ‘We’ve always been together.’

‘Not always,’ Paul reminds him gently. He brings his hand up to stroke Daryl’s cheek. ‘Oh, you were so  _angry_ when we found each other.’

‘’course I were mad,’ Daryl scoffs. He rolls off his friend and sits next to him in the tall grass. ‘Didn’t even do nothing wrong! Well-  _you’d_  think it were wrong, but that’s the damn point. How can you do wrong in Hell, huh? Pfft.’ He glances to his right and chews on his nail for a second. There’s uneasiness clawing at the inside of his skin, making it not fit just right anymore. He doesn’t like to talk about what he’s done to get punished. If it’s so bad that even their lord couldn’t stomach the sight of him anymore, it would probably cause Paul to hate him.

So he refuses to tell the story. Has refused, for centuries now.

‘I know what you did.’

Daryl narrows his eyes at Paul.

‘Centuries, and you think I still haven’t worked it out? Come on,’ the man reaches out to grab his friend’s hand, entwining their fingers. ‘You were put down here, just like me. We’ve lived thousands of lifetimes. It’s always the same. We grow up, we meet people and…’ he closes his eyes for a second, ‘we watch them all die. Over and over. What kind of crime could fit such a punishment?’

Daryl chews on his fingernails.

‘You tried to help them,’ Paul says with a little smile. ‘Admit it.’

‘Just didn’t seem fair,’ Daryl shrugs as he looks away. ‘Didn’t know nothing, just got dropped here… didn’t even know how to make a goddamn fire. It just didn’t seem fair, was all.’

‘And as a punishment for being kind, they made you watch your family die over and over and over, until the end of times.’ Paul squeezes his hand.

‘Don’t matter anymore. It happened so often, I don’t remember half of them.’

The other man scoots close, nudges him with the tip of his nose, ‘liar,’ he breathes into a slightly reddened ear. ‘You remember them all.’

‘Ashes,’ Daryl mutters, turning his head and breathing against pale lips. ‘Nothing but dust,’ he whispers before claiming a kiss. They’ve only found each other weeks ago, but they’ve already spent so many lifetimes together that it’s easy to find their own rhythm again. The way Paul will always be the one who scoots closer while Daryl will lean back, forcing the other to follow him down. For a moment it feels strange to let his hands curl around sharp hips, dragging the other man on top of him fully, feeling his chest against his own, how their boots scrape over each-others legs while getting comfortable.

Slow kisses traded between hands disappearing in long hair, hips rolling lazily, eyes meeting whenever they shift and find another familiar angle. Blue and blue clashing with a flash of teeth when Paul leans down to lick up Daryl’s neck, to bite at his jaw and chin before claiming his lips again. The difference in their bodies never matters but they always use it to their advantage.

Daryl suddenly grunts and reverses their roles with a quick move, hovering above his friend for a moment, surprising him with a strength he didn’t have before. ‘You’re beautiful.’

‘Angel,’ Paul points out with a smug smile.

‘No.  _You_. That’s just a part of you. I meant all of you.’

Paul reaches up to stroke his cheek. ‘You still kiss like a devil would.’

‘Only works on you though,’ he smirks before leaning down to press light kisses to Paul’s jaw, down his neck to his collarbone. One of his hands finds the tiny buttons on the man’s shirt and pops them open one by one, revealing more skin for him to kiss.

Paul laughs, his hand finding Daryl’s wild hair, fingers stroking it softly. ‘Did you even try it with others?’

‘Hubris,’ Daryl scolds, ‘thinkin’ you’re the one and only.’

‘ _Experience_ ,’ Paul corrects with a swat at his friend’s head. He stares up at the blue sky. ‘I thought this would be one of those times, you know? The ones where we never found each other.’

Daryl closes his eyes and lies down between the man’s legs. His cheek against the softness of his belly, too far away to hear any heartbeat. He sighs. ‘Yeah,’ he says softly. ‘Me too.’

He remembers those times, even though he tries so hard to forget them. It doesn’t happen often, but it happens and the fact that it  _can_  happen always paralyses him with fear. Perhaps it’s just another twist on his punishment that he remembers the lives which were too short to clash with Paul’s best.

He remembers being a teenager working on a trading ship, his heart filled with longing to see the world (to find Paul) and how that longing had been replaced by terror when his shipmates began to die around him. Some kind of flu, maybe, but covered with black boils, oozing blood and pus. By then, he already knew he wasn’t immortal. He’s eternal, yes, but he still dies.

And he died on that ship, never having found Paul, delirious from his fever and in agony.

There were other times, of course. Life is unpredictable and often too short.

Sometimes it would happen twice in a row. A natural disaster, a disease, something completely out of his control and then he’d be so angry. So angry that he would do anything to rush through the rest of his lives, hoping that hitting the reset button would somehow speed up the process instead of just starting it all again.

A stunt doomed to fail.

A proposition any sane person would reject.

A soldier’s calling.

Carelessness.

He also remembers finding Paul, or rather Paul finding him with minutes to spare. When they were fighting on different sides, when the bullet was quicker than the realization that it’s  _him_ , that another cruel twists let them hold each other while one died. The confession spilling over bloody lips, that he’d just signed up because that was easier than waiting for old-age to claim him, that he’d been so sure that it had been one of  _those_  times. The ones they hardly ever talk about, except for a ‘what happened?’ the next time they meet, quickly dismissed by feverish kisses.

Most of all, he remembers Paul’s horrified look. The slow realization that his anger might have blinded him, but that Paul had still been looking, every day until he’d died. That he had joined the army to earn his trip around the world, covering more ground because the world keeps getting bigger with every century they live through.

They don’t talk about that moment anymore. Or those lives.

They don’t talk about a lot of things, actually. Not anymore, at least. They know now, after all this time, they just  _know_.

‘Why are you here?’ Daryl asks suddenly because they’re running out of time. Paul’s right, he can feel it too. ‘I’m being punished, but why are  _you_  here?’

‘Choice,’ Paul answers easily. His fingers tighten in his friend’s hair.

Daryl looks up, leans on his elbows before pressing a loving kiss onto the man’s sternum.

‘I just wanted to see, in the beginning,’ Paul says. ‘All those stories, I just wanted to  _see_. One life, two, three – I loved them all. It’s different every time, right? And I could help. Really help. I went back, a couple of times, in the beginning, you know. Before…’ He trials his fingers over Daryl’s cheek. ‘But I didn’t feel at home there anymore. I’d already been gone too long. So I stayed here.’

‘You regret it?’

‘Sometimes,’ Paul admits. ‘They are my people. It hurts not to be a part of that anymore. And I can’t let humans come too close, or they’ll know. It feels like living half a lie, every time. Until I meet you again.’

Daryl nods and lies back down.

‘Do  _you_  miss it?’

‘Sometimes,’ he whispers.

Paul’s fingers card through his hair. ‘What do you miss?’

He closes his eyes and shakes his head. He’s not sure whether he could ever explain that. To Paul, his home is darkness and fire. In the depths of the abys they were thrown in, so long ago. Hell, without end. A city built out of ashes, so different from the golden floors Paul walks on. It’s hell, but it’s where he belongs. It’s his home and he misses it.

Maybe that is why he lives these lives. The ones in the shadows of society, outside any system, away from prying eyes or people who could make it better. He doesn’t get to choose, of course, in what life he’s born, but they always fit him just right so he wonders whether his lord has not completely abandoned him. Either one of them.

‘Daryl,’ Paul says softly. ‘What do you miss?’

‘My brothers,’ he mumbles, thinking about that city down below and the throne made of soot. How he used to sit on the step just below it, leaning back against the chair and scowling at whoever disturbed their peace. Looking up at his brother, the wickedness in those piercing eyes, a cutting smirk playing around both their lips.

The others, too.

Paul sighs. ‘Do you think this is the last time?’

‘Nah,’ he says because he’s stubborn and doesn’t want to believe it. ‘There’s still babies bein’ born. This ain’t the last time.’

‘What do you think it will be? Another meteor?’

‘I dunno,’ the hunter mumbles. He turns his face and kisses Paul’s belly, one hand stroking over his side, feeling the ribs, the dip just before he feels his sharp hips. ‘You should know. Weren’t ever us. We don’t punish.’

‘Except for your own.’

Daryl lifts himself up, higher, to claim another kiss. It’s warm and familiar. His hand wanders over soft skin, hot to his touch. Fingers splayed out because he wants to feel it all, now, all at once. A groan is dragged from his chest when Paul pulls him impossibly closer, one of his legs hooking around Daryl’s, their hips slotting together. Hands on his own chest, on his neck to keep him close and then there are fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt.

He throws the garment aside.

Scars and dirt and ink and none of that matters when Paul licks into his mouth. It shouldn’t be this right. It shouldn’t feel like fire in his veins, an addiction he’s always born with even though he loses his memories of the angel as soon as he dies. He always knows that it’s out there; something, someone. He just needs to  _find_  them.

And now he has.

Hands hold his hips down, chests sliding together. He can feel muscles shift under his fingertips, gets just enough warning to let himself be pushed over, onto his back, arching up into the other man. Pupils blown wide, eyes darker than an angel’s ought to be, so beautiful that it even causes Daryl to worship again.

Paul above him, one hand on the devil’s chest to hold him down, panting a little. He can’t help but roll his hips impatiently, more human now and less angelic, chasing pleasure and hardly caring about such a trivial thing as  _consequence_.

‘You should ask forgiveness,’ Paul breathes, staring down at him.

‘You should fall,’ Daryl pants back because they don’t want to lose this, but neither of them wants to say they’d picked the wrong side at the beginning of this war.

‘And give up  _paradise_?’ Paul asks.

‘Ain’t your home,’ Daryl begs. ‘Said you didn’t feel like you belonged. You ain’t no angel.’

‘ _Am_!’

‘C’m here.’ Teeth and lips and hands, pale skin and soft hair, longing tipping into desperation as he tries to win allegiance. Paul moans when his belt buckle comes undone, arches his back when Daryl works on the buttons of his jeans. ‘Ain’t, ya ain’t,’ he whispers into warm skin before licking up a chest and reclaiming that sweet mouth.

The words burn on his tongue. He knows he shouldn’t be asking this of the angel, shouldn’t be urging him to fall from the great height. He still bears the scars of his disobedience. Nothing as superficial as flesh wounds, but festering wounds on something deeper and more precious than his soul. There is no greater punishment. And it’s nothing Paul should have to endure, no matter how sweet the kisses, no matter how much their bodies coming together reminds him of paradise itself.

It’s not enough.

Hell is his home now, but they made due. Nothing more. They will crawl out of that pit, will reclaim what is rightfully theirs, will always yearn for their paradise. Hell is not their heaven. It is endless suffering, no matter how proud they are to bear that scorn.

He doesn’t want the angel to bear it, too.

Paul grabs his chin, keeps him at bay long enough to whisper against hungry devil’s lips. ‘You can be forgiven.’

He doesn’t  _want_  to be forgiven.

He doesn’t want to walk through those gates, doesn’t want to face those who’d won only the first battle, doesn’t want to see the smugness in their eyes. The war is eternal. All is not lost. They will reclaim that palace, will take back paradise and will cast out all those who’d cowered behind that one great force.

‘We don’t kneel,’ he growls back, biting at lips but never drawing blood. Not from him.  _Never_  him.

‘Just this once,’ Paul begs between soft moans.

‘ _Never_.’

‘You’ll burn.’

‘Hell fire don’t hurt us,’ the devil breathes against angelic lips.

Paul reaches out and strokes his hair, cups his cheek and presses their foreheads together. ‘It’ll hurt me, knowing you’re down there.’

Maybe that’s true - the angel hardly ever lies – but that hurt will fade in time. Those wounds close.

Daryl knows he’s not good. He’s gluttony and greed as he steals kisses, wanting more and more and more, lust as his hands tug at the waistband of Paul’s jeans. There’s wrath in his knuckles, though he hides it by brushing them gently over Paul’s cheek.

He’s no good for no angel.

But they’re human now.

He buries his hand in Paul’s hair, captures his lips in a feverish kiss. A groan vibrates between them when he feels that the man is unbuckling his belt, undoing the buttons and then urging him to lift his hips. The jeans are tugged down, end up a mess around his ankles until he kicks his boots off, smirking when Paul laughs and shakes his head before diving in for another kiss.

He feels oddly vulnerable below the angel, who is still wearing his shirt and jeans. The shirt is hanging open, allowing him to let his hands roam over pale skin, a muscled back, thumbs brushing over the sharp hipbones. ‘Off,’ he growls into that hot mouth, shoving at Paul’s jeans.

But the angel is in no rush.

Daryl closes his eyes when the man kisses his temple, his ear, his jaw, his shoulder before pale lips  cover his nipple. He arches into the touch even though he knows he shouldn’t. It feels too much like worship, the way Paul is kissing down his chest now, paying no mind to the scars that crisscross on his belly. Head bowed as if in prayer, Paul dips lower, following the little trail of hair, teeth scraping over sensitive skin.

He can’t resist the little tug. He raises his hips and lets the other man take his underwear off. It’s almost too much when the angel takes him in his mouth, hotter than any hell he has endured but more addicting, too. Fire that burns but never scorches. Eyes fall closed even though he wants to see, back arching, hands desperate as fingers try to bury themselves in dark blond hair.

Another tug, from him this time and the angel grins like the devil Daryl wishes he was, lips wet and shiny around sharp teeth. A desperate sound, hands gentler as he flips them again. The angel beneath him, welcoming his touch with soft noises and a grunt when Daryl removes the last items of clothing separating them. And then it’s all laid out before him. He dips low, kissing the heartbeat, kissing a loving trail over a body he hasn’t encountered before. It’s all new and familiar at the same time because it’s always Paul, but he’s always different in every life.

Now there are sharp edges, blunt fingernails scraping over his back, muscles bulging when he leans onto his elbows to watch how Daryl worships him. Hips rolling eagerly, finding friction for a moment when Daryl settles down to taste his skin and moaning when it’s lost again as the archer continuous his path, unhurried as if they have a thousand more lives ahead of them.

‘Please,’ Paul says between short breaths.

Daryl rests his chin just below his belly button and looks up. Licks his lips, grips hips tightly.

‘ _Please_.’

He likes to make him beg, always. That never changes. Maybe it’s that spark of sin inside of him, the urge to pervert and seduce and lead astray, but that doesn’t make sense now. Not when it’s perfect, their bodies sliding together, their shared love strengthened through time and hardship and always finding each other even though they wear different faces, listen to different names. This is not his work because it’s  _good_.

It frightens him, sometimes.

He knows it frightens Paul, too, in some lives. More so at the beginning of time, when it was new and dangerous and unexpected. When it was still choice and not yet fate and destiny. When Daryl wasn’t Daryl yet but still just a devil with a beautiful or handsome face, clever hands. He remembers those days when Paul would be gone in the morning. Sometimes for days, weeks, months, sometimes for the rest of that life. Ashamed at liking a devil’s touch, craving it more than the company of his fellow angels, too scared to bare himself to such darkness and desire.

That hadn’t been a problem for Daryl of course. It might be forbidden, but he’s always been a sinner.

None of that matters anymore.

Paul always found him again.

He always found Paul again.

And here they are, at the end of times, heartbeats away from judgement and not a single regret standing between them.

He never refuses. He’s not cruel, not with him, and he can’t deny himself that wave of pleasure either when he finally tastes the other man on his tongue, licks one broad stroke to draw a deep moan from that lean chest. A hand in his hair now, tugging and pulling, hips stuttering as he takes him in deep, lips closing, dragging over hot skin to taste it all.

Worship, maybe, though it draws his name from Paul’s lips so maybe it’s something else. Something only they can share.

‘Stop, stop,’ Paul whines, falling onto his back again and arching up, still chasing that mouth despite the words. He wants it to last.

Daryl stops. Drags himself up, bodies flush against each other, shift so one of his legs is between Paul’s, grinding down against him. Their lips just a breath away from each other, eyes meeting as their hips roll. Hands roaming, Daryl’s nose bumping into Paul’s cheek, neither of them quite sure who those needy moans belong to and neither of them caring. Heated kisses and heated looks, foreheads pressing together and Paul’s hands on his hips and ass, pulling him closer, closer,  _closer_.

A choked gasp, Daryl clenching his teeth, burying his face in the crook of Paul’s neck, Paul tilting his head back as pleasure crashes over them both. Hips and arms and even legs shaking, spasming slightly before a calm settles over their hot bodies.

He settles down between Paul’s legs again, covering the lower half of his body, careful not to put too much weight on the man’s chest. Lazy fingers draw circles on his back.

‘Thousands of lifetimes,’ Daryl murmurs when his heart has calmed down and he’s no longer panting. ‘Ain’t enough. Ain’t  _nearly_  enough.’

Paul scratches at the back of his neck before running his hand over his back again, humming in agreement.

‘Ain’t ready,’ the demon confesses as he rubs his nose against the angel’s chest as if he’s trying to get even closer, to bury himself in the warmth of the light and hide forever.

‘Your punishment will be over.’

‘Don’t care,’ Daryl mutters defiantly even though his heart is so wary after losing so many mothers, fathers, all of his mortal siblings, anyone who has ever done him a kindness.

Paul’s hand stops. Rests between shoulder blades. ‘He told us.’

‘Hmm?’

‘Your lord,’ Paul says and his voice sounds strange. Strained. ‘He came to us, above, and told us of your punishment. Taunted that the world created by light would be used by darkness as their very own torture chamber. He would banish one of his own to this place and watch him slowly go mad.’

Daryl looks up.

‘Loss,’ Paul says as he strokes his cheek. ‘Desperation. It almost happened, remember? When you thought – when it was  _those_  times.’

‘ _Didn’t_  happen.’

‘No. You asked me why I was here and I told you I wanted to see. You thought I meant the human race. All of them. I let you believe that. But I wanted to see how one tortures a devil, wanted to see how it slowly lost its mind. So I came down and I watched, but… You tried to help them. You always try to  _help_  them.’

Daryl leans on his elbow and frowns. ‘What’re ya sayin’?’

Paul’s hand shakes his thumb runs over Daryl’s lower lip, pushing it down so he can slip his finger inside. Eyes dark as he watches how the devil sucks, curls his tongue around it. ‘That you’re good and I’m not.’

Daryl scoff and lets the finger slip out of his mouth again. ‘You’re an angel. You couldn’t be bad if you tried.’

‘I was just on the right side when it all went down.  _That_  was coincidence. This is not. Us meeting? It can’t have been when it’s this perfect. This is fate. And this is destiny,’ Paul says as he guides Daryl up to get another kiss. Soft and sweet, an echo of bliss. ‘I hate them all. I hate them both.’

‘What are you talkin’ about?’

‘I never fitted in with my brothers. Never felt like I belonged, so I got the chance to see something on earth, to watch something terrible and I just jumped at it. They knew I would. And you were so sweet,’ he strokes Daryl’s cheek. ‘So kind. You looked down and saw them in their punishment and brought them fire. You didn’t belong and they kicked you out. They knew we would be perfect together before we’d even met.’

‘Omniscient,’ Daryl says as he kisses the angel. ‘Can’t beat that.’

‘No. You can’t. So did they know that I would want to see that devil hurt, and did they know that I would fall in love? Did they know that time on earth is finite, was that always part of the plan? That I would go down and lose my heart, that I would lose it forever because this all ends and we will never be able to find each other again. Did they know that it would hurt, forever?’

‘I think so,’ Daryl whispers against lips. ‘Must have.’

‘Why would they do it?’

‘They are omniscient, but they don’t owe us any answers. Maybe we’re both being punished for being a piss poor angel and rubbish devil. Who the fuck cares. We’re here  _now_.’

‘But it’ll end and-‘

Daryl silences him with another kiss, never wanting to hear the end of that sentence. ‘Stop,’ he says when they part. ‘Hasn’t ended yet.’

Paul gazes up at him. ‘Babies being born right?’

The devil nods. ‘And we ain’t dyin’ for a long time. I just found you. And our lives are longer now than they were at the beginning. You ain’t dying from a cold no more, ya wimp.’

Paul laughs, ‘I had  _smallpox_! In the 1600’s! I didn’t die from a  _cold_.’

‘ _1600_? Man, I’m talking  _way_  back when, good lord, not, like, practically yesterday.’

The angel smiles. He runs his fingers through Daryl’s hair, gripping it tightly before dragging him close. Noses touching, foreheads resting together. ‘We had a good run together.’

‘Ain’t over yet,’ Daryl insists. ‘Not for a long, long time.’

‘Just a human life,’ Paul objects.

Daryl nods. ‘‘s what I said; a long, long time.’


	7. Howl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three years after leaving home for a fresh start, Daryl returns for the annual gathering of North American werewolves and has his life turned upside down when he meets the liaison of the Hilltop Pack.

Three days before the full moon, Daryl handed his outstanding jobs over to Dwight, locked his apartment, forwarded all his messages to Carol, hopped onto his bike and headed home for the mountains of Georgia with nothing more than a small pack and his crossbow. Officially, he was heading out of state for a family reunion, and though Negan had grumbled plenty about losing his “favourite employee” for a few days, there was literally no reason to stop him. Unofficially, when the Alpha of the North Georgia Mountains Pack called, only a fool would ignore him.

Daryl had barely left Alexandria when his phone rang.

“What?”

Michonne chuckled into his earpiece a moment before replying, _“I take it you are on your way?”_

Daryl scoffed and said, “You could have confirmed that through the pack bonds, you didn’t have to call me.”

His Alpha’s mate laughed outright.

_“You know damn well that you’re too far away and the moment Rick senses I might be looking, he would freak out and set the whole pack to fight mode. No. I already have to deal with Judith’s tantrums, I’m not doing that today.”_

Daryl smiled at the mention of Judith and Michonne replied before he could ask, _“She is very excited about reuniting with her Uncle Daryl, you know. It would be a shame if you showed up empty-handed.”_

“I won’t,” said Daryl. “She and Andre are the only reason I’m coming.”

That was not exactly true. The Gathering, the annual meeting of the North American werewolf packs that had been held almost since the Europeans started colonising the New World, was a mandatory event. There would be old wolves there, the Clan names of some recorded in history books before the Revolutionary War. The Dixon name had never risen to such prominence, despite whatever Old Will used to claim when he was drunk or moody but it did carry certain obligations. Daryl tried not to consider what his father would think of his younger son joining a Pack.

_“You liar. If you didn’t show up, Rick was coming to get you. Did you really have to move so far away?”_

“Is there any particular reason you called? I doubt it’s just because you wanted to make sure that I’m coming.”

Michonne giggled this time. Somehow, the Alpha’s wife was always laughing. _“The Hilltop Pack, under Gregory, are coming to the Gathering for the first time in decades this year. They are sending a liaison, Paul Rovia, ahead and Rick wants you to bring him to the house.”_

“I hope he doesn’t mind the bitch seat,” said Daryl.

He could practically hear Michonne rolling her eyes as she replied, _“He’ll be at the station when you get in. Try to be nice. They said they’ve been trying to contact you for years now and you refused.”_

“I’m not leaving Rick,” said Daryl.

 _“I know,”_ said Michonne, with a sigh, _“and no one is asking you to. But, politics. You’re in their territory and you haven’t even gone by to say hello. Gregory has been angling to make a fuss about this for years and he’s going to have the opportunity this weekend. Maybe you can smooth things over with the Hilltop by being nice to this guy.”_

Daryl could have told Michonne that he had in fact met Gregory before, just once, many years earlier when Old Will was still alive. It had been a politics then too, Old Will for the possibility of money, and Gregory for prestige of an old Clan name, but both men had disappointed each other. Daryl had only been a boy, small and shy, hiding behind his Uncle Jess while the other men drank and tried to come to an agreement, so he doubted that Gregory would remember him. The Dixon name however…

“I can try. I’m not making any promises,” said Daryl with a grunt.

Michonne giggled again and said, _“Yes, yes, just try not to scare him too badly, okay? We want peace, not war, after this Gathering.”_

Daryl scoffed. “When has a Gathering not ended in a new blood feud, woman?”

*

Daryl stopped for the night at a small motel on the border. He picked up the scent of at least three other wolves as he was checking in, none of them were familiar. That was odd coming from this direction. Though Daryl refused to go to them, the Hilltop Pack had certainly come looking for him. He knew most of them by scent, though they all avoided each other, and could not place any of these. If any of them was the new liaison it would certainly save Daryl the trouble of going to the station.

Tired from the long ride, and with another awaiting him the next day, Daryl decided against introducing himself and went to bed.

The next morning, after a quick breakfast at the diner across the street from the motel, Daryl set out again. The other wolves had gone too, long before he woke up given the weakness of their trail, and Daryl was happy for it. The sooner he got back to the Pack, the sooner he could be back in the arms of his family. He stamped down on that thought before Rick could sense the emotion through the pack bonds. Rick was his brother as much as Merle ever was, though they had known each other for far less time, and the last thing Daryl needed was the pack giving him hell for it.

He finally made it to King’s County at noon and headed straight for the train station. If the Hilltop’s liaison wasn’t there, Daryl had every intention of leaving him. He was close enough to home now that he could feel the others and catch the scent of their trails throughout the town in the air. Daryl sat for a moment in the parking lot gathering all the familiar scents and sorting through them for his family.

Michonne had been through here recently, probably picking up pack members who had travelled in. Rick too, but that was to be expected as he was the sheriff. Tyreese was a surprise, he had avoided the Gathering for years, with good reason, which was also why Carol was not here. Sasha must have dragged her brother out, plus Tyreese and Rick were friends. And then Daryl caught a new scent.

It was an unfamiliar wolf, but it did not quite smell like it. He picked out the Virginia woods where he sometimes went running during the full moon, and blade oil, though that was odd because the only wolf he knew to sometimes use a weapon was Michonne. But there were traces of other things too, old varnish, paper and leather. It was a young wolf, but not a teenager like Carl, and for some reason, it was the most wonderful thing Daryl had ever smelled.

He turned towards it before he could stop himself. A train had come in and the passengers were quickly running out to waiting cars or honking taxis. Daryl scanned the faces, even as something pinged on his memory, something Rick had said about the day he’d first laid eyes on Michonne.

“You must be Daryl,” said someone behind him.

Daryl whipped around, stunned that someone had snuck up on him, but when he opened his mouth, no sound came out. He had never seen eyes that colour before, blue-green like the ocean in all the posters of the tropical sea. The wolf pulled off his balaclava—Daryl noticed belatedly that he was dressed in full riding gear, and carrying a helmet—to reveal a handsome, if youthful face and easy smile that made Daryl’s heart skip a beat and then start racing. And his scent, the air was filled with it to the point of intoxication. Daryl’s vision blurred and he swayed.

Paul’s smile fell away and his brow furrowed as he asked, “You’re Daryl, right? Hey…are you okay?”

Daryl shook his head to clear it, turned to his bike to get his water bottle and drained it before replying, “Yeah, that’s me. You the liaison?”

Paul was still staring at Daryl with concern crinkling his forehead, and, oddly enough, a hint of the wolf in the glow that lit his eyes from within. Daryl’s own wolf was as jittery as he was, which was not good for his health. He sat heavily onto the bike, if only to reassure the other man that he wasn’t going to fall, and said, “Got a little overheated. You Paul Rovia?”

Finally, the other man replied, “Yeah, that’s me. Though my friends call me ‘Jesus’.” He spread his arms for emphasis and the wind picked up a little, bringing the scent of his hair to Daryl’s nose. Holy hell, he smelled so very good. Daryl’s memory finally clicked on what Rick had said, how Michonne had smelled like all his favourite things and how badly he wanted to cover her in his own scent. Daryl choked on the air.

Paul hurried to his side, one hand on Daryl’s shoulder to steady him, and asked again, “Hey, do you have any more water? We should probably get you out of the heat.”

Closer now, Paul was setting every one of Daryl’s senses on fire. He jerked away from him, standing awkwardly, and nearly knocked them both over. Paul stumbled back, surprised, the wolf bright in his eyes, and Daryl shrank away, horrified, even as his wolf pressed closer, intrigued. Paul blinked the wolf away, laughed and said, “Sorry, sorry. Let’s try this again. Do you want to go have a seat in the shade? I was at a diner near the station. We can get lunch and air-conditioning.”

“I can make it,” Daryl said with a grunt, more embarrassed than ill.

Paul smiled warmly at him and said, “My treat. Michonne told me that you were riding in from Virginia. Perhaps we could have come in together, if you had come by HQ to meet the Alpha.”

That was when Daryl noticed something else. Paul was strong. Not like Rick, who was already unusually strong for a Turned wolf, but enough that Daryl had to actively avoid turning his throat. He would have too, his traitorous wolf ready to surrender, if he wasn’t so close to his Alpha.

Daryl scoffed and said, “I’ve met your Alpha before. I don’t need to do it again…but I haven’t had lunch.”

Paul’s smile turned into a full grin.

*

They had barely made it into the diner when Daryl’s phone rang again, though this time it was Rick.

_“Where are you, brother?”_

Daryl exhaled at the sound of Rick’s voice and said, “Home.”

Rick laughed into his ear and said, “I know. I meant, where are you exactly?”

“At the station. Michonne told me I had to pick up the Hilltop liaison. I’m here with him now, going for something to eat,” he replied.

There was a prod on his pack bond and Daryl inhaled deeply, and relaxed. He was home, his brother was happy and waiting for him. He looked over to Paul to find the other man staring at him, an unreadable expression on his face. It quickly vanished, replaced with a warm smile and a nod towards a nearby table that gave them a view of the entrance and the parking lot where their bikes stood. Daryl nodded back and said to Rick, “You don’t need to come get me.”

Rick barked out a laugh at that. _“I wasn’t coming to get you.”_

“Yeah right. I can hear the wind from your car window, sheriff,” said Daryl.

Paul picked up the menu as soon as he sat down, obviously trying to ignore the conversation. His wolf hearing made that impossible.

_“Fine. I’m still on the clock anyway. Let the liaison know that I’m going to take your judgement on his character and will meet him at the house.”_

“Yes sir,” said Paul, without looking up.

Daryl caught a hint of a smile and forcibly regulated his breathing. It wasn’t going to do him much good for long. If this was what Daryl thought it was, the moment they arrived at the house, Rick would know.

 _“See you later, brother,”_ said Rick. _“Know that Judith and Andre are expecting presents so if you did not bring anything, well, it was nice knowing you.”_

“Yeah, yeah, damn spoiled brats,” said Daryl, and the other man hung up.

There was a pause while Daryl set aside his phone and settled more comfortably in his seat, and then Paul said, “He sounds nice.”

“He’s a good man, and a very good leader,” said Daryl, bristling slightly.

Paul looked up, hands raised in a placating gesture and replied, “I meant no offense. It’s just that…well, you know Gregory.”

“Why do you work for him?” asked Daryl, still annoyed. He needed that anger if he was going to throw Paul off his trail. Surely the other man was picking up a weird vibe from him. He did not look affected, apart from his wolf threatening to break through a few times—did that mean anything? Rick had not mentioned the wolf—but he had been smiling since they met so Daryl assumed that was a façade.

Paul ran a hand through his long hair, ruffling it, filling the air with the scent of his shampoo and sweat and goodness gracious, there was a _twitch_. Daryl shifted in his seat, his face hot, heart racing despite everything, but Paul was not looking at him again and replied, “When I…I came from DC. I knew no one, but there was a job opening at the manor, you know, a cover. I took it and when he realised I had other useful skills, he took me in.”

Daryl shifted again, looked down at the menu and said, “He’s still an asshole and you’re strong enough to take him.”

Paul smiled again and said, “Be that as it may, my duties as liaison keep me well away from Hilltop for months. I believe that’s why we haven’t run into each other before. You realise that Gregory is within his rights to demand satisfaction from Rick for that offence. It is considered beyond rude to settle down in another pack’s territory without informing the Alpha first.”

“Rick would tear him to shreds,” said Daryl with a scoff. “Besides, I met Gregory before. A long time ago. I could probably take him now.”

Paul considered this for a moment before replying in a soft voice, “You know I could not let you do that, right?”

Daryl risked a glance up at Paul’s eyes and then ducked away. Paul was smaller but more dominant. The more time Daryl spent in his presence, the more he wanted to bare his throat. He coughed, cleared his throat and said, “You promised me food, man. And Rick is waiting. Wouldn’t be a fair fight with me on an empty stomach.”

Paul laughed.

*

The Grimes house, purchased from the father-in-law of Rick’s other second, Glenn, and converted into pack HQ, sat on a sprawling estate of some fifty acres in the most verdant part of Georgia. As they rolled up to the front gate, past the quiet cows and wild chickens, the pack members dutifully ploughing fields or fixing equipment, Daryl slowed to take it all in. He hadn’t been to this farm in more than a year, and little had changed.

Rick was out, at work, but Michonne’s Cadillac was in the middle of the driveway. He could just hear Andre and Judith running down the stairs for the front door—no one was going to get in the way of their greeting. Maggie was there too, and Glenn, but also Sasha, Abraham, Rosita, Tyreese and surprisingly, Beth and an unfamiliar male. This was far from the full pack—he thought back to Carol in Virginia, and Sophia—but the others were still coming.

When he first left the pack some three years earlier, Daryl had expected to be completely cut off. Rick had been furious, already heartbroken because of the end of his relationship with Lori and loss of Shane, but Merle was gone and Daryl needed time to process that. And there was Carol to consider. But then Rick had called for him for the Gathering the next year and, when Daryl dithered too long, drove up to Virginia to retrieve him. Daryl liked to think that they had come to an agreement now. It was just over a hundred miles from home but Daryl would come whenever Rick called.

The front door burst open as his and Paul’s bikes stopped at the bottom of the drive. A bright-eyed six-year-old boy with his mother’s grin and a stern-faced three-year-old girl stared down at them, holding hands. Paul took off his helmet and shook out his hair, laughed and asked, “Which one is yours?”

Daryl grunted at him, “They’re Rick and Michonne’s, and the pack’s, so both.” He turned to smile at the two and called, “Hey, what did I tell you about answering the door?”

“Momma said we could,” said Andre.

“Uncle Dar!” cried Judith.

They hurried to greet him, stumbling over words of greeting and demands for presents. Daryl swung his leg off the bike and met them halfway, scooping the two up in his arms and peppering their little faces with kisses. They squealed and squirmed in delight. His wolf settled at last, content that the two pups were fine.

The front door opened again. Michonne walked out onto the front porch and folded her arms, smiling down at them. Paul got off his bike and made no move to approach the Alpha’s mate, but Daryl could feel the other man’s eyes on him. Just over Andre’s head, he caught another unreadable expression on the man’s face.

“Alright, alright, I’m going to put you two down now. You can check my bag. But after you say hello to our visitor,” said Daryl, finally setting the two down. They looked over at Paul and each grabbed one of Daryl’s legs. Daryl laughed and said, “Now, now, say hello to Paul.”

Two little faces glanced up at him, then over at Paul and Andre mumbled, “Good afternoon.”

“Hello,” added Judith, a little shyly.

Paul smiled warmly down at them and said, “Hello little ones, good afternoon to you too. And you, ma’am.”

Michonne smirked at him and said, “Good afternoon, Paul. Don’t you dare start with that ‘ma’am’ nonsense, you’re only a little younger than me. It’s very nice to meet you.”

“And you,” said Paul, smirking back.

Daryl let Andre and Judith into his bag on the back of the bike, with a light warning to mind the hot tyre. It only took them a few minutes to find the stuffed wolves it had only cost two paycheques to get. Their reactions were worth it though, when they reattached themselves to his legs and gave him toothy, happy grins. Daryl thought his heart would melt.

Then he heard Michonne’s warning growl, “Paul…”

Daryl looked up to find that the other man had come around the bike when he wasn’t looking, so close that if Michonne had not said anything, Daryl would have stumbled into him. His wolf had made no attempt to warn him. Paul had his head turned away now though, gaze firmly averted from the Alpha’s mate. Andre and Judith did not let go of Daryl but they did turn to their mother. And then the pack poured out of the house into the yard.

“Whoa, whoa, what’s going on?” Daryl demanded, startled and glaring at the rest of them.

There were more than a few embarrassed glances his way, Maggie even waved, but Michonne did not bother with them. Her eyes were glowing golden brown, the wolf just behind the door. To Paul she said, in a deceptively pleasant tone, “There are children present.”

Daryl tried to get a better look at Paul’s face again, thoroughly confused, but the other man kept his head down as he replied, “I must speak to your Alpha.”

Michonne allowed a little smile to form as she replied, “Oh, don’t worry. He definitely wants to speak to you…just, tread lightly.”

Daryl glanced between the two of them and the others, trying to understand what was happening. Had Paul done something? Daryl might be attracted to the guy’s scent, and his wolf might have turned into a pussy cat before him, and yeah, he looked good too, and was nice to talk to, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t kick his ass. He turned to Paul with a narrow-eyed glare, ready to launch into a warning, when they heard Rick’s car racing up the drive.

All heads turned to sheriff’s truck, and Daryl grabbed hold of Andre and Judith to stop them from running towards it. He did notice then that Paul’s eyes had been glowing blue. Rick had barely stopped the truck before he hopped out and ran up the drive to Daryl. Daryl released the children at once to let him, though both men had to bend a bit because the children went nowhere.

In his head, Daryl smelled gun oil and sweat and starch and paper, the antibiotic soap Rick insisted on bathing with, the cologne Michonne must have bought, and slightly, traces of the two children all over his brother’s shirt. In his heart, he felt home and the reforming pack bond that made them brothers, closer even than blood. This was the brother that he had chosen, the one who had his back and guided him and loved him unconditionally. Rick had saved Daryl’s life a thousand times over and he loved him so much it hurt, it physically hurt to pull away to get a good look at his face.

When he did though, his Alpha’s eyes were glowing blue.

Daryl immediately turned his head, his wolf submitting. Being around Rick was almost always too much, but Rick hugged him again, pressing their heads together as he said, “Brother, thank goodness. You had us worried that you weren’t going to come.”

Daryl shook his head and replied, “You know I wouldn’t miss this. My Alpha called me.”

Rick lifted an eyebrow, and asked, “I’m still your Alpha?”

Daryl scoffed and shoved him and Rick laughed and all was right in the world. Then Rick looked over Daryl’s shoulder to Paul and said, “Jesus, is it? Or should I call you Paul?”

Paul shrugged and said, “Whichever is fine. It’s an honour to meet you, Rick Grimes. And on behalf of the Hilltop pack, let me extend my—”

“Don’t bother,” said Rick, cutting him off, demeanour changing in an instant.

“Rick?” Michonne and a few of the others exclaimed.

“Hey now,” Daryl began.

Rick barrelled on, “You’re supposed to be Alpha of the Hilltop pack, Rovia. You know by the end of this Gathering, Gregory won’t be. You know what he’s been doing. The other Alphas and I are not going to stand for it any longer.”

Daryl turned back to the other man, stunned. At no point in their conversation in the diner, did Paul hint at any such thing. Paul was still looking at Rick and shuffled uneasily before replying, “I am not a leader. I will support your challenge, the whole pack agrees, but you will have to find someone else.”

Rick growled his disagreement to this and said, “To do nothing is to allow your Alpha to remain a threat to us all. You would let him hurt my wolf?”

Paul’s gaze flicked over to Daryl, lingering a little before a hint of a glow started to form. Daryl shifted closer to Rick and the whole pack growled. Daryl’s mouth fell open, he snapped it closed and swallowed, then lifted his chin at Paul. Rick tightened his grip on his arm and replied, “Let’s go inside. This is no place for this discussion.”

*

Daryl was no fool. By the time they had made the rounds of introductions and greetings and made their way into the farmhouse, he had a very good idea what had happened between him and Paul. He didn’t even need Michonne to corner him in the kitchen and ask, “What does he smell like to you?”

Daryl grunted. He did not want to say it. He was still living with the trauma of what the words meant, or at least what they would have to his father. Michonne folded her arms and looked at him. He exhaled and replied, “I can’t really describe it…is that…is that what Rick smells like to you?”

Michonne stared at him for a beat longer before she relaxed into a smile and said, “Yes. And I don’t know if I should be the one to tell you this but—”

“I _know_ ,” said Daryl, to stop her finishing the sentence. He was there. The pack had been reacting to Paul because they read the claim his wolf was trying to make, subconscious though it seemed to be. “I, uh…I didn’t realise that he was affected too. Maybe I should stay here.”

“No,” said Michonne, sternly. At his expression, she smiled and said, “You need to be there now. He’s not going to listen to anything Rick says if you’re not anyway. Can’t you feel what’s going on with Rick?”

The whole pack had been tense since the first incident with Paul, but now that Daryl was feeling for it, he realised they were also shifting warily around their leader. Rick might have been acting cordial with Paul but everyone could feel his unease. And Paul, who Daryl could not yet sense in any real way, was nevertheless radiating challenge and pressing, gently but firmly, at the pack bonds to get at Daryl. If he and Michonne did not act quickly, there was going to be a fight. But how the hell was Daryl supposed to mediate in this? He had never expected to find a mate, nor considered it, and his parents’ relationship was hardly an example, barely-remembered as it was. He could refuse, he had that option, but until certain things were brought out in the open, he was going to be stuck between his overprotective brother and the insistent new liaison.

Michonne gave him a small smile, and said, “It’s going to be fine. Let’s get in there.”

Paul’s gaze found him first when they walked into the small living room. Rick stared at him until Daryl stood beside his brother and Alpha, while Michonne took hold of his hand. Rick exhaled, deflating only slightly. Then Maggie said, “I think we should deal with the elephant in the room.”

“No,” said Daryl and Rick together.

Paul smiled at her and said, “Yes.” Rick growled and the pack tensed, but Paul continued, “I would prefer to speak with Daryl first. This concerns us alone.”

“You don’t know anything about each other,” said Rick at once.

“No one does, at first,” said Paul, looking at Daryl again. “I think we should at least have the opportunity to try.”

Daryl looked away from that gaze, and realised that Paul was no longer pressing on the pack bonds. But of course not, Daryl was within his sight. He grunted and said, “It’s not anybody else’s business, Rick.”

Rick studied him for a moment, nodded, and said, “Yes, that is true. And I won’t get in your way. I just…would prefer if we did not also have to deal with Gregory at the same time.”

“Gregory can’t get in the way of this,” said Paul. All eyes turned to him and he gave a wry smile. “In fact, I think he would be over the moon at the prospect of a Dixon joining our pack.”

The pack bristled again, even Daryl, and Paul’s smile widened to a grin. Daryl could not believe that the little shit was joking about this. He said, “He tried before, didn’t work. Rick is my Alpha.”

“And you might be my mate,” said Paul, seriously. This time he ducked his gaze away from Daryl though, and added in a low voice, “I didn’t come here expecting this either. I came here to get us working together. But then you…” He stopped, took a breath, looked at them again and said, “This is a conversation that Daryl and I should have alone. Will you grant us this?”

Rick stared back at him for nearly a minute before replying, “After. Let’s make sure we’re on the same page for the Gathering.”

*

Old Will liked to talk about heritage and history and pride, exaggerating the importance of the Dixon name among the old Clans, but it didn’t take a genius to see that it was not worth much. Daryl had grown up in a trailer park with his father and older brother, visiting their Uncle Jess at full moons or on school holidays for hunting. Daryl and Merle were both discouraged from shaming their name and mixing their bloods with the half-breeds and other filth, like wolves who’d been Turned not born, and made up most Packs. Merle did not give a damn about most things their father said, but on this one thing they agreed.

Paul had told Daryl a lot about himself while they ate at the station. As a boy, he’d been Turned in a Rogue attack that had killed his family. He was placed in a group home run by an elderly couple who knew how to handle “troubled” boys like him, though it did not stop him from becoming an angry young man. Martial arts helped, reading too, but Paul had really been biding his time until he got out and could hunt down the Rogue. He wound up working for Gregory instead, but used the liaison job to travel between the packs seeking out any clues on his prey. He had confessed this part with a sheepish smile, and Daryl had laughed with him, but still only gave an edited version of his past. Poor Clan family in the mountains, brother died fighting an Alpha who had nearly destroyed Rick’s pack, then moving to Virginia to start a new life.

Had Daryl ever had a mate before? Daryl had found the question odd at the time, and blushed, but told Paul that though he had noticed a few people, he was terrible at making new friends. Rick and Michonne had forced themselves into his life until he gave in. Paul had admitted to being terrible at friendships and relationships, with a string of broken-hearted boyfriends. Maybe it would have been easier if he could have told them about his hunt, or for a few, that he was a wolf, but he did not think it would make a difference. He had been waiting, he understood now that he was older and wiser, for his mate to find him.

Thinking about those words in the diner, the way Paul had looked when he said it, slouching back in his seat, looking over at Daryl through his long, dark lashes, it was clear. Paul had had the same reaction that Daryl had, he just had been able to hide it better.

“I think I must have smelled you a thousand times before today,” said Paul.

Daryl, who had felt his approach, smelled it too, the sound of Paul’s light footsteps already familiar and welcome, did not start, but replied without turning, “You been stalking me? I never smelled you. My Daddy and Merle would have kicked my ass for letting another wolf get as close as you’ve been doing all day.”

Paul laughed, light and free, and came around in front of Daryl to reply, “I’ve had far more practice sneaking up on you. I just never had a reason to approach before…and I did not want to.”

Daryl looked up at him, grinning despite the sinking feeling in his chest, “You talked pretty big in there for someone who’s backing out now. Rick’s still going to kick your ass.”

Paul laughed again, louder this time, and said, “No. I’m not backing out. I did not want to approach you before because I thought you would be a distraction. I have a mission. I know that wolf is still out there and I must find him. I just…tried to put this off for as long as possible. Sent the pack to watch over you whenever I was out of town. I know, that was bad, but now that I had found the mate I wasn’t even looking for, how could I let anything happen to you? And then after all that, there you are waiting for me at the station.”

Daryl forced himself to say, “You can still back off. I’m not looking for a mate and you’re going to be pretty busy when Gregory’s put down.”

Paul took a step towards him. Daryl leaned back, nostrils flaring, and Paul gave him a lazy smile, eyes dark blue. Daryl imagined that his gaze was the same. Paul said, “No. Not anymore. Not after this moon. When we run in this Gathering I will seek you out, as you will look for me, and my wolf will claim you. Or…the other way around, I don’t know. Rick might intervene, or we might be able to keep away from each other, we might miss this moon, or the next, but eventually, probably before the year is out, we won’t. You’re not even fighting it.”

Daryl stood up at that. Paul stepped back. Daryl rolled his shoulders, shifted his feet, but he could not bring himself to walk away. Paul nodded at him and said, “I’m not going to try to convince you. I am hardly able to do that when I’ve known for months about this and you only found out today. But I wouldn’t be disappointed if you let this happen.”

Daryl stared at Paul, at the way the light played on his hair and the sun spread over his skin, then nodded, turned and walked away.

*

Daryl spent the next two days trying to keep away from Paul, and failing miserably. At dinner that first night, when he went to sit on the other side of Michonne, closer to his brother, Rick sent him to sit next to Paul. Carl, the little brat, had gotten a lot of jokes out of that, probably still mad that Daryl had teased him endlessly about his crushes on Beth and Sophia. Paul had offered a sympathetic smile, and even jokingly assured Daryl that he was going to stay at a motel and only needed to be at the house for the discussions and Gathering. Rick shut that down though, insisting that he was their guest and would remain at the house, which is how he and Daryl ended up sharing a room.

Daryl did not sleep a wink that night, lying on his bed, stiff as a board and staring at the ceiling. He was very sure that Paul did not sleep either, if only because he could hear him breathing and shifting uncomfortably from his place in the cot they had set up. The next morning Paul made a joke about bundling that set Michonne and Maggie giggling like schoolgirls and Daryl’s blood boiling. He only contained his anger when the pack sensed it and started tensing.

Once he’d had a night to sleep on it though, Rick seemed even less bothered by Paul being Daryl’s mate. In fact, he insisted on putting them together to help prepare for the Gathering. Before he knew it, Daryl was going on grocery and guest pick-up runs with Paul in the passenger seat of one of the pack’s vehicles, or scoping the forest area that would serve as the Gathering place, or, and this part seemed to be motivated by Michonne, keeping an eye on Andre and Judith while the others worked. That last assignment turned into a hilarious mess though, because Paul was a softie when it came to children and once the two figured that out, they walked all over him. Daryl let it go on for as long as he felt necessary, nearly four hours during which Paul’s long hair was braided, his face painted, his body bruised from their clambering all over, and he was forced to play the target of all their games.

The second night, exhausted, they both slept easier. Daryl dreamed a great white wolf climbed into the bed with him, licked his face a few times and then curled up beside him. His own wolf whined happily at the attention and he laid a hand over the white wolf’s back to draw it closer.

The morning of the Gathering, Daryl woke to find Paul gone. Michonne explained when he went out for breakfast, “Had to go get Gregory. They’re staying at an inn in town.” Then she stopped, sniffed the air, and her eyes went wide. Daryl, who had noticed as soon as he awoke, blushed and said, “I’m going to break his nose.”

Michonne laughed and said, “He’s a young wolf. He has a lot of control but tonight’s the full moon. His wolf wants his scent on you…and you’re not exactly resisting.”

Daryl stared at her for a beat and asked, “What if I don’t want to?”

Michonne stopped and stared him, eyes wide. Daryl dropped his gaze, and shuffled his feet, embarrassed. She walked around the kitchen island to take his hand in hers and gave him a gentle peck on his cheek. He smiled at the affection, and she replied, “Then don’t. There are no rules to this. If you want to give this a try, you can, no one will question you. If you don’t, well, let him know and we’ll lock you up tonight. You don’t have to be at the Gathering.”

“But he is, and he’ll look for me,” said Daryl.

“Rick will keep him away,” said Michonne. She pressed another kiss to his forehead and said, “Whatever you decide, we’ll respect and he will too. You can resist the mating.”

Daryl nodded at this, letting her hold him for a few moments more, absorbing her comfort and scent, and then stepped away to get his own breakfast.

The rest of the day was a blur of activity. After the Gathering, it would be like a regular family reunion with food and drinks and games and stories being traded back and forth. Daryl hoped he could convince Carol to come again one day, if only to get Ezekiel off his back, but for now he planned to get her lots of pictures. Of course, once the others saw the camera, he was appointed official photographer. Maggie and Glenn wanted maternity shots, though she was barely showing and not due for months. Sasha and Abraham had to have engagement pics, though she reminded him that he had not yet proposed. Carl demanded that Daryl get into every picture he tried to take of Rick, Michonne and the children. And everyone insisted that he had to get one of Paul, if only to hang up in the shop. He was sure that Negan would not approve, but he was not going to take a pic of the other man anyway so they needed to quit.

In the mid-afternoon, Rick finally announced that it was time to go, handed the younger children over to Beth and her boyfriend, Noah, and led the others on the long drive to the mountains and the Gathering. Daryl spent most of it asleep, but was first out of the vehicle when they stopped, practically bounding for the trees. He heard Rick and the others chuckling behind him, Abraham cracking jokes, but he didn’t care. Paul was here, he smelled him, and then he heard Rick murmur, “Easy…easy…”

Daryl stopped, looked back at the tension on the others’ faces, took a deep breath, held it for ten and exhaled. They all breathed out with him, and Carl unclenched his fists. Daryl was not as dominant as Rick, but he was strong enough to get to them and Carl was still growing. And then Paul said, “Maybe I should have walked up with you.”

They all turned. He was at the edge of the clearing, the other Clans and Packs who were not staying with Rick, spread out behind him. Daryl could just see Gregory chatting with a Clan leader over Paul’s shoulder. It had been so many years since they had last laid eyes on each other, but Daryl would not forget the other man. He was older now, hair gone grey and thinning, a small paunch to his stomach, but even with his back turned he made Daryl’s hair stand on end. Paul’s eyes glowed electric blue and Rick said, “If you wish to keep close to him, I will not object.”

Daryl bristled and snarled, “I don’t need your protection.”

Paul nodded and replied, “I don’t think Rick was talking to me.”

Daryl blinked, surprised, then realised his hands were curled into fists, his nails lengthened to claws. He flexed his fingers and shoved both hands into his pockets and started forward, ignoring Rick’s chuckles and Paul’s blush.

The moment Gregory saw Daryl Dixon step into the clearing, his eyes went wide and he paled. Then his gaze narrowed, he took an exaggerated sniff, and said, “You didn’t discuss Mating with me, Paul.”

“I don’t have to,” said Paul, stopping beside Daryl. “It’s no one’s business but ours.”

Gregory scoffed. “The Dixon name doesn’t mean anything. I won’t defer to him and I will not have him spreading dissension in the ranks. I get along fine without you most of the time, you know.”

Paul’s gaze narrowed, his eyes glowing even brighter, a challenge to his Alpha that Daryl would never even consider, and asked, “Did you just threaten me?”

Gregory blinked, looked around the clearing at the other Clans and Packs observing them. Some of these Alphas wore clothing Gregory could never dream of owning, despite the fancy estate, and turned up their noses at him. The Clans had stopped closing ranks to the Packs a long time ago, especially with their numbers so small, but there was no telling if any of them would really ignore a slight to one of their own. Daryl did not want their protection, he belonged to Rick’s Pack and his was a Clan of one. Paul, defiant, raised his chin. Gregory said, “Of course not. You are hardly ever at the house, I can’t imagine Mr Dixon here would want to stay there without you.”

Daryl blushed at the implication, and cringed at his blushing. Mates did live together, but Daryl was three years into a ten-year lease. He also hated Gregory. And he was not one to sit around waiting for his mate to return.

Rick interjected then, “And on that note, I think it’s time we do what we came to do. I defer, of course, to Ezekiel.”

Ezekiel marched out of the trees as if Rick had made a grand announcement, accompanied by his second, Jerry, and Morgan, a friend of theirs who had also left after the attack. Ezekiel was too much on most days, but today, Daryl decided, they needed the theatrics. If Gregory did not get his throat ripped out before sunrise, Daryl would be very surprised.

“Friends…no, brothers and sisters, it is once again the time of our Gathering. Tonight, we continue an ancient tradition, immortalised by our European forebears as the Wild Hunt. Tonight, we run with the moon and welcome to our fold new sons and daughters and mates.” Daryl was pretty sure more than a few heads turned to him. Paul shifted closer to him, but did not touch. Daryl exhaled. Then Ezekiel said, “As your leader, chosen by ballot, I thank you once again for the honour. It is a great responsibility, and at times, a terrible one.”

He felt, as they all did, an immediate shift in the crowd. Paul was so close that Daryl could feel the other man’s body heat, and more palpably, the wolf pressing near. In the background, Rick growled a warning but Paul ignored it. He could not break the pack bonds anyway, not unless Daryl let him.

“I am not one to stand on ceremony, so I believe this matter must be dealt with at once. It has come to my attention that one of our number has fallen. This is an Alpha I have known and respected for many years, one whom I once thought I could trust. Or perhaps, rely on to eventually get around to doing the right thing. That is no more.”

Daryl looked over at Gregory. The other man still looked rather oblivious, so sure of his being untouchable.

“This wolf, for he can no longer be considered Alpha, has stolen from his Pack, has conspired with Hunters, has at least on one occasion, sacrificed a Pack member to save his own skin.” The sound of growls and snarls filled the air of the clearing and called to the wolf hiding in Daryl’s blood. He wanted to Turn and tear the traitor to shreds. He wanted to feast on his flesh and drink his blood. He wanted to give his mate the bastard’s head as a trophy. Fur began to sprout along his arms and his nails lengthened and thickened to claws, his teeth pressed uncomfortably against his lips. Jesus sighed and rested his head on Daryl’s shoulder, and it was as if a blanket had been spread around him.

“We have lived as long as we have because we know that we must live in secret. There are those among us who have lost greatly for ignoring it.” Michonne had lost her boyfriend and his best friend and barely escaped with Andre. “We have sentenced many traitors and careless souls for lesser crimes than these. We have vowed, for the sake of our numbers and of peace, to never follow this path again.” Daryl had torn into the Governor with his brother’s blood still on his tongue, forced to put him down because the torture had driven him Rogue. “In a way, this is a mercy. To allow his cowardice to stand is to continue the suffering of his Pack.”

On cue, another Alpha, Cyndie from Oceanside Pack, stepped forward and asked, “Are we to condemn this man on your word alone? Shouldn’t he be allowed a fair hearing?”

Paul lifted his head from Daryl’s shoulder, gave his arm a squeeze, and stepped forward. Gregory’s mouth fell open, he blinked twice, and he started towards Paul, “Now wait one minute, Mr—”

“Back. Off,” said Daryl, glaring at him, his wolf bright behind his eyes, already growling in his head.

Gregory started and stumbled back, stopped and stood with his hands on his hips and his chest puffed up. His tone was considerably calmer as he asked, “What are you doing, Paul?”

Paul said, “Gregory, Alpha of Hilltop Pack, you stand accused of crimes against your pack and wolf kind. You have stolen and cheated and, worst of all, stood by while others were killed. You can no longer be allowed to stand as head and I challenge your claim as Alpha.”

Gregory’s eyes flashed brilliant blue, and then he Shifted. Paul cried out and dropped to his knees, the other Hilltop pack members falling facedown, one of them out cold. Gregory had pulled on the pack bonds for a speedy shift. At Paul’s cry, a red haze fell over Daryl’s mind and he howled at the moon. It took every ounce of his will and some of Rick’s, to stay the Shift. This was Paul’s fight first, and Daryl would respect that.

Gregory did not wait for the other man to recover, but launched himself at Paul as soon as he got his bearings. Paul rolled away at the last instant, kicking out and knocking the wolf onto his side. He did not Shift, probably still weakened from Gregory’s to do so, but he could fight. The old wolf had yelped when the blow landed, but stood up quickly after, shaking off the blow, and ran for Paul again. Paul let him charge, then stepped to the side and punched the wolf in the face. Gregory absorbed the blow and snapped back at Paul, catching the sleeve of his shirt and then forearm. The scent of blood filled the air and Daryl started losing control of his faculties. Paul had been wounded.

Paul wrapped his other arm around the wolf’s neck, trying to choke off his air and stop him from ripping up his arm further. Gregory bucked, trying to throw him off, and then rolled them over. It was a bad move, he was vulnerable in this position, and he paid for it. Paul let his nails lengthen to claws and slashed at Gregory’s stomach. The wolf released him at once and jumped away. Paul laughed.

It was not a happy sound, but full of bloodlust. He threw his head back and howled and Daryl, unable to help himself, answered. And then Gregory jumped for Daryl’s throat.

Gregory had miscalculated the jump, so he only got him in the shoulder, but he still hit Daryl like a freight train, knocking him flat. Daryl struggled for a moment, trying to push the wolf off, to get the teeth out of his flesh, and then there was another wolf on Gregory’s back, pulling him off. Daryl rolled away and tried to Shift as soon as he was free, but there was so much pain and blood. He was mildly aware of the other wolves closing in, and then Paul’s wolf, a majestic white monster with eyes as luminous as the moon, was standing over him, snarling. Daryl wanted to push him away and pull him closer at the same time.

Rick was howling in his mind, mad with rage, and the rest of the pack was not too far behind him. Daryl gave up on trying to Shift then, focusing on pressing down on the bleeding wound with his uninjured arm. After a moment, he felt Paul’s tongue lapping at it. Daryl pushed him away, but he was losing strength. This was bad. He needed help or he was going to bleed out. He turned, looking for anyone still human enough to help, but it was too late. They were all wolves under the moon, and then everything went black.

*

Paul’s hair tickled Daryl’s nose with every breath. He sneezed and opened his eyes.

Daryl’s old bedroom at Rick’s house was bright but quiet, and when he checked for them, he realised that everyone was out, scattered around the grounds. Paul was curled up against his side, his head on Daryl’s uninjured shoulder, wearing nothing more than a pair of sweat pants. Daryl blinked at him, surprised, and then looked over to his bandaged shoulder. Gregory had nearly killed him, the bastard.

“He’s dead,” said Paul.

Daryl turned to meet his bright, wide blue-green eyes. Paul smiled and said, “Rick killed him, which technically makes him Alpha of the Hilltop Pack, but he put off making a decision until you woke up. Which you just did, good morning.”

Daryl stared at him for a beat and asked, “Is it morning?”

Paul shrugged and said, “You just woke up. How do you feel?”

Daryl flexed his shoulder, unsurprised to find it mostly healed, and said, “Hungry. And there’s this weight down one side of my body.”

Paul grinned and sat up. Daryl watched the muscles flex under his skin as he did so, and Paul said, “I can solve both problems for you. What do you want to eat?”

“Michonne giving you free reign of her kitchen?” asked Daryl, only mildly surprised.

“We didn’t know when you would wake, so I do have some privileges, yes,” said Paul. Then his cheeks reddened and he ducked his head and added, “That is, if you will let me?”

Daryl considered him for a moment. They were not mated, Daryl had not been able to run with him under the moon, which was waxing now, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Mostly relieved, somewhat disappointed. His wolf made an unhappy whine in his head. He said, “I’m not going to be waiting around for you to hunt a Rogue that’s probably long dead.”

Paul met his gaze and held it for a beat, then leaned in to press a small kiss to the side of Daryl’s mouth. Daryl inhaled, heartrate picking up, and turned his head. Paul blinked at him, surprised. His wolf pressed against the pack bonds, testing, and Daryl pressed back. Paul smiled at that and kissed him properly. He kept it chaste but Daryl tightened his grip on the bedsheets, wanting and yet terrified of going for more. Paul leaned back first and said, “I don’t expect you to. Could we talk about it?”

Daryl nodded and Paul smiled. “Alright then.” He sat up, patted Daryl’s arm and asked, “What do you want?”

Daryl bit back his first response, but reached for Paul’s arm anyway. His stomach grumbled noisily in protest, and Paul laughed and kissed him again.


	8. Xandria City

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After fleeing from Negan and his gang, Daryl Dixon needs help. There is only one place he can think of going.

Dark alleys were bathed in the timid light of the moon which glistened from the wet streets. It had rained all day and the clouds never had made room for the sunlight to shine through, but that was the least of his problems right now.

Daryl Dixon could barely see where he was going, but determination kept him on his feet, fighting away the nausea that was about to overwhelm him. Pain and exhaustion were lashing out on him harder with each step he took, his legs burned, his stomach revolted, his head was about to explode.

He still kept going.

There was no other choice, no way back, only dark alleys and the little glimpse of the light that could await him around the corner if he was lucky.

If.

The options he had weren’t so many—either stop walking and risk being caught by the people he had escaped from, or keep walking and trust a stranger. Instinct had sent him on this route though and that was the only thing life had taught him to trust.

Even at this hour at night cars were rushing by the main street furiously, making him feel even dizzier than he already had done, but he had to keep moving, had to get off the streets, had to stay conscious, had to ignore the ground feeling wobbly under his feet and the buildings shaking at his side.

His legs stopped being useful the moment he had come to a halt and rung the bell. He wasn’t sure if he should’ve gotten rid of his clothes before coming here, but it wouldn’t be of any use anyway. As soon as he’d start talking, he would know. Know more about him than anyone else outside of his family.

There was no other choice though, no way back, so what was the point?

Daryl couldn‘t fight unconsciousness any longer, making him miss the moment the door opened.

 

***

 

Pouring water into a glass never had been this hard to focus on. Water spilled over because his mind was somewhere else. He turned the water faucet off, put the full glass on the counter and paused for a moment, thinking about what the fuck could be going on.

Finding superhumans at his doorstep wasn‘t quite that frequent, especially not an unmasked and unconscious one. No superhuman in Xandria City dared to show their face to the public—at least not all of it—let alone when they weren‘t able to defend themselves.

He certainly hadn‘t expected the man who was sleeping on his couch at this very moment, but there was nothing he could do but wait for now.

Paul‘s hands were itching to grab his smartphone and call the police, let them deal with this, yet his guts told him not to, told him to at least wait until he woke up. And of course there was the unpleasant issue of the police asking him more questions than he would like to give answers to.

So he made sure for the third time that his hidden knives under his sleeves still were there, as if he really needed them, and grabbed the glass. He hadn‘t seen The Archer‘s face unmasked before, but he knew that he wouldn’t be a threat for him due to the information he already had about him. That was at least what he told his nervous hands.

It wasn‘t that he was afraid of this man, no, he didn‘t fear a guy in a leather vest with wings and a mask carrying around a crossbow. The fact that he had showed up at the door of his secret apartment no one except for his parents knew of—not even his closest friends—was another story though. He wasn‘t too keen on killing people, superhuman or not, but he also knew that some things couldn’t be avoided; and between the safety of his own and a potential threat he of course would have to choose himself.

He would have to find out more before deciding to do anything too drastic, maybe it was just a coincidence that he had appeared here, maybe there was another plausible reason that didn’t involve his cover being blown. So he took a deep breath and walked back into the living room. It was a small apartment—at least compared to his official one—with two bedrooms, a claustrophobic kitchen, and a humble living area. Yet, he spent more time here than in his penthouse towering over the city that his dad had bought for him when he’d turned 21.

The stranger was still sleeping on his couch, his left eye black and swollen, lips split and covered in dried blood, the rest of his face overflowed with several cuts and bruises. The only reason he had recognized him as The Archer was his characteristic black leather vest with white wings sewed on it. He didn’t have his crossbow with him and the mask he usually wore wasn’t hiding his face now, but his features were distorted anyway. He only had seen him in the news before, involved in some shady things with gangs and superhumans using their power for criminal things. Paul never had had to face him in real life before though.

He walked over to the coffee table and put the glass of water down with more force than necessary, causing the man to jump and open his eyes.

“Well, look who’s regained consciousness,” Paul said and took a few steps back before he crossed his arms in front of his chest.

The Archer sat up abruptly and then winced in agony, putting a hand on his ribcage. Paul hadn’t checked for more injuries but if his face looked like this, he was sure that he wouldn’t look any differently under his clothes. He let the other man catch his breath and look around before he cocked his head impatiently. “How are you feeling?”

“Like shit.”

“You sure look like it.”

The Archer stared at him for a while before he got up with a heavy sigh and walked towards the window. “Anybody come here?”

“No, are you expecting someone?”

No answer.

“Who the hell are you?” Paul asked finally, putting the politeness aside. “I mean, I kind of know who you are, but what are you doing here?”

The Archer turned around, confusion written all over his bruised face. “Ya know who I am?”

“Either you’re that masked crossbow guy, or a huge fan of his,” Paul said and let his hands fall to his sides, slowly moving them behind his back while trying not to look too suspicious.

“I need your help,” was the unsatisfying answer he got instead.

“I think I helped you enough, I don’t want to get involved in… weird superhuman stuff. I would like you to leave now.”

The Archer pulled his brows together and looked at him in disbelief. “You don’t want to get involved? You jokin’? Didn’t you fucking incorporate that new company providing custom made gear and clothes for superhuman people the other day?”

The blood froze in Paul’s veins—it was true that he had done that, but it hadn’t been public yet, only a few people knew about this. Behind his back, he grabbed the little hidden blades, prepared for what might come next.

“That’s just business,” Paul said through gritted teeth, not even wasting his time with denial. “How the hell do you know who I am?”

“Everyone knows who you are, hard not to when your family name is written on the tallest building of the city.”

The Archer still stood by the window, scanning the streets with some kind of anxiety Paul didn’t know how to read.

“Why are you here and how did you find this place?”

He turned around and looked straight into Paul’s eyes. “What if I don’t tell you? Will you kill me with them knives you’re hiding behind your back, Jesus?”

That was more than he needed to know.

Paul jumped forward and overpowered the injured man within seconds, throwing him on his back and pinning him down to the ground before he even had the time to defend himself. He was half sitting on top of him, immobilizing his arms with his knees and his other hand while he pressed one of the little curved knives against The Archer’s throat. He leaned down towards his face until he could feel his breath against his mouth and looked into his eyes.

Menace tainted his voice as he asked, “Who told you?”

“No one.”

“I’m asking again, how the hell do you know? And you better answer this time.”

“Or what?”

“Or I’ll cook your fucking brain,” Paul hissed and a spark lit up over the knife in his hand, slightly burning the skin of the man. “And I won’t be as nice as the people who did this to you, trust me, you won’t be able to walk out of this apartment.”

“As I said, no one told me, I just know.”

A bigger electric spark ran over the blade, burning deeper into his skin this time and causing the man to close his eyes and groan in anguish.

“Last chance, there won’t be another,” Paul warned and stopped the current that ran from his hands through the blade. He put the blade aside and put his hand on The Archer’s head. “If you know me so well, you’ll also know what comes next if you keep on playing games with me, Archer.”

“Man, I’m fucking telling you already, I know, because it’s part of my—well—ability, whatever you call it. I can feel everyone, superhumans. I knew years ago about you, I know about everyone.”

“Is this a fucking joke?!”

Paul put his other hand on the other side of his head, getting ready to electrify his head because he was losing his patience.

“Your personal assistant is this power chick and her girlfriend the healer. You’re supporting the mayor who’s this shadow woman, I know about everyone, because I can feel supernatural power, I can feel it, I can see it in people even when they’re walking down the streets in their civilian disguise. I knew of this place because I felt you here.”

Paul lost his speech for a moment and he tried not to panic because of what he had just heard. This man didn’t only know about his powers and his secret identity, he also knew about Tara, Denise, and Maggie. His heartbeat found an alarmingly fast rhythm and for a moment it was hard to breathe. What if he wasn’t the only one knowing about this? What if the people he was associated with knew too? Paul’s mind ran wild.

“Who else knows about this?”

“Just me.”

“What about your friends, Negan and his gang?”

“They ain’t my friends and they don’t know. Your secret is safe with me if you help me.”

“Help you? How?”

“Protect me from them.”

 

***

 

He could still feel the burning electric blade on his throat half an hour and some pain killers later when he was taking a lukewarm shower in Paul Rovia’s bathroom. They had held him in that cellar over two weeks, beating him up for days after they had found out about him, about him and his connection to the chief of the Xandria City Police Department. He still hadn’t figured out who could have ratted out on him being a mole, but he knew that he couldn’t contact Rick Grimes or any other members of the police or the DA’s office now.

But the beating hadn’t been the worst.

They had experimented on him. Not just on him.

Dr. Eugene Porter had claimed that he could find a way to extract superpowers from people with the possibility to implement them into others. This had made headlines a few years ago, but the government had stopped funding him and his project after a few failed attempts that had cost one person’s life. With the years, this scandal had faded into obscurity, but Daryl remembered the anxiety that had flared up in the superhuman society. He couldn’t blame them, he had experienced firsthand what that meant.

Originally, Dr. Porter had wanted to use his technology for the government to keep supervillains at bay, take away criminal’s powers as punishment and also to protect the public. But he had decided to turn his back on the government after it had abandoned his project, and he had sold himself and his project to the highest bidder—Negan.

Negan was the head of a group that called themselves The Saviors. He was one of the most powerful and influential people of the underworld. He ran several Casinos and also was involved into drug dealing and other illegal businesses. Daryl had infiltrated his gang years ago to gather intel so that the police could finally find a way to put him behind bars for good, but his cover had been blown. He didn’t know how, but he guessed that there had to be a spy or a traitor among the police. If he wanted to be safe from Negan and his men, he had to stay away from everyone that was involved with the police, including his friends.

The first person that had crossed his mind after he had managed to escape that cellar had been Paul Rovia. CEO of the biggest software company in Xandria City that he had taken over from his father two years ago. The reason he had thought of him was because Daryl had known about his secret second life as a superhero for far longer than that. Under the name Blade of Jesus he had fought for peace and justice alongside Misty Shadow—or Maggie Rhee, and Daryl trusted her. If Maggie had fought side by side with this man for nearly a decade now, he knew that he could also trust him. They had gained two more members after Paul had become CEO, one was his personal assistant and the other her girlfriend.

Daryl knew that Jesus was unrelated to the police and the DA’s office, unlike the other superhumans he was acquainted with, one of them being Maggie, who was not only the Mayor of the city, but also married to one of Rick Grimes’ officers and Daryl’s closest friends: Glenn Rhee. It was ironic that they were linked like this, but never had actually met each other officially before. It wasn’t so hard to know why that was, though. Daryl knew about Maggie’s secret because of his powers, but her husband didn’t—she had kept her superhuman accomplices and everything else that was related to her second life a secret from all of them.

Even though he hadn’t met Jesus officially before, Daryl knew how capable he was. Not only was he seen in the news regularly, but Daryl had also seen him in action once when he’d been undercover during a drug deal with Gregory’s gang. He had managed to keep out of the fight when Blade of Jesus had appeared, with his usual handkerchief covering half of his face, and had prevented the drug dealing from happening. He had even captured Gregory that day, but sadly, Gregory had bought his way out of prison just a few weeks later.

Although he had known about his abilities, he still hadn’t expected him to jump on him like that, it had surprised him and he couldn’t deny that he had been terrified there for a moment. Before the cellar, it wouldn’t have overwhelmed him this much—Daryl Dixon wasn’t afraid of anything—but now things were different.

_He_ was different.

Dr. Porter hadn’t just experimented on him, he’d also succeeded in what he wanted to do: he’d extracted a part of his powers and implemented them into one of Negan’s men, and unluckily enough, it had been that part of his abilities that had saved his life and kept him alive throughout any dangerous situations he had found himself involved in the past.

The public actually didn’t know more about his abilities than that he was very skilled with the crossbow. They also didn’t really regard him as a ‘real’ superhuman, just a guy with a crossbow who was good enough with it to fight among superhumans. They didn’t know about his healing powers and his ability to see traces of energy and feel the power of other superhumans. Only his family knew about them. Merle, who was in prison at the moment, had been the only remaining person to know about all of his skills. But being in that cellar and being beaten up, they had of course noticed that his injuries didn’t last for long, that they disappeared almost immediately. That’s when they had found out about his powers and when the experiments had begun.

It had been a welcome turn for Negan. It wasn’t easy to capture a superhuman, and there wasn’t anyone in his gang with powers that he could have used the new technology of Dr. Porter on, but as chance would have it, the rat among his men he had held prisoner already had turned out to be one of them.

“Well, well well, will you look at that—he doesn’t just wave a fucking crossbow around, now does he? He actually has super-fucking-powers. This stupid fucker will be more useful than I thought after all,” he had said with a sardonic smile.

Dr. Porter only had managed to take away his healing powers; Daryl didn’t know if it had merely been a coincidence or if it had to do with him knowing about them and not his other secret powers, but he had been lucky enough to keep them.

“It would be a disaster if they got a hold of them,” Jesus had mused after Daryl had told him everything earlier. “If that would happen, they could track down every superhuman and overwhelm them when they least expect it, and take away their powers to use them for themselves.”

He hadn’t needed to know more to accept Daryl’s request of protection.

Daryl was pulled back to the present when the door to the bathroom opened.

“Just bringing in new clothes for you to put on,” he heard Jesus say on the other side of the shower curtain. “Ah, and by the way, we will meet Denise and Tara early in the morning.”

Before Daryl could protest, Paul continued, “I know you told me not to call others for help, but that won’t be possible. We will need every help we can get and I assure you that neither of them are connected to the police or the DA’s office.”

“We can manage ourselves.”

“No we can’t. I can’t babysit you all day, but I also can’t risk them getting their hands on you. And also, you need to see a doctor, the way you move, I think one of your ribs might be broken.”

He wanted to refuse the help out of habit, but he actually didn’t fancy being injured. It reminded him of things that he’d rather forget about. The only time when his superpowers hadn’t been able to help him. Injuries he had suffered that still marked his skin to this day in the form of wild scars. Daryl closed his eyes and turned the lever of the faucet to one side until the water burned his skin in angry waves.

Jesus was right, they needed every help they could get.

 

***

 

It was early in the morning when they entered his penthouse through the lift the next day. In contrast to his small apartment, this place was much cleaner and less personal. The luxurious living area with its bright colored furniture had large windows covering the outer walls completely in glass, providing a breathtaking view over the city. There was also a glass-door leading outside to a large balcony and a circular staircase into the second floor of the apartment. It was expected of him to live in a place like this; social pressure also forced him to give occasional parties and invite people he didn’t actually like but had to pretend being friendly with for the sake of his family and the company. Overtaking the company and being too much in the public eye weren’t things Paul fancied, but he had felt obligated to his parents after all what they’d done for him.

He knew that he could never repay them—and how could he? They had saved him from that prison he had been put into after his biological parents had died and left him—a superhuman child out of control—behind.

Paul still had nightmares about those days in prison.

He had only been six years old, alone in a safe cell for superhumans in a high-security prison. Of course he understood now why it had been necessary, he had been a threat to the public as soon as his powers had awakened at that age, and back then, government programs for orphaned superhuman children hadn’t existed. If you had been a danger to others, you’d gotten locked up. Nearly thirty years ago when prison had been the only solution, when he had been locked up there, scared and alone, not understanding why slight movements caused explosions around him, why random flashes came out of his hands, why people were scared to go near him, why all of that was happening to him, and most of all, _why no one was helping him_ , life hadn’t been that easy. Thankfully, things were different now and kids that had a similar fate like him didn’t have to go through that anymore.

He knew he owed his parents everything, for giving him this new life others would kill for, so enduring little inconveniences like peer-group pressure were hardly worth mentioning.

Still, he preferred living in that other apartment, the one that made him feel cozy and real, the one that had belonged to his biological parents and that he had bought once he had found out more about them after becoming of age. He knew that it had hurt his mother a lot when he had told his parents about it, but they’d been awfully understanding, more than he probably deserved, and never had reproached him with it even once.

“When are they gonna come?”

The Archer went ahead to the cream-colored leather couch to let himself down on it with a suppressed moan. He was still in pain, you could see it in every movement, but he tried his best to act like it wasn’t a big deal. He didn’t look so well, actually. He was pale and it didn’t go unnoticed by Paul how each step had been a struggle for him.

“They should be here soon,” Paul said and walked towards the open kitchen he hardly ever used. “Want some coffee?”

When he didn’t hear an answer, he turned around to look at the other man. He was just looking straight back at him, maybe pondering the offer, but not seemingly inclined to answer anytime soon.

“You’re not a social butterfly, are you?” he asked as a joke to break the silence. He of course knew that the man wasn’t feeling too great and he didn’t expect him to make small-talk. “You got a name? Or do you prefer _The Archer_?”

This time, he didn’t have to wait for an answer.

“Daryl.”

Before Paul could respond to it, his phone started to vibrate in his jeans pocket and he pulled it out to put it on his ear.

_“This guy is not letting us through, do something,”_ an annoyed female voice nearly exploded in his eardrums.

“Sorry, forgot to tell him,” Paul answered with a slight grin on his face.

Tobin, the doorman of this building, had looked surprised when he had seen Paul in company of a man he’d never seen before, but he hadn’t said a word about it. He had, though, smiled to himself when he had accompanied them to the elevators. Paul of course knew what had crossed his mind and what still might be crossing his mind while he refused to let people come upstairs that might disturb whatever could be going on up here.

He sent a message to the doorman and continued with the coffee all of them would probably need at this early hour.

 

***

 

“Just relax, I won’t hurt you.”

The blonde woman put both of her hands on Daryl’s chest and seconds later he could feel warmth flooding his whole body.

“I can’t believe you made us come without our costume and mask,” Tara said angrily, pausing for a moment to take a sip from her coffee. “And at an ungodly hour like this, too.”

“He already knew about all of us, Tara, so it doesn’t matter,” her girlfriend Denise said, moving her hands down Daryl’s body. “Man, they beat you up good, those broken ribs must have hurt a lot, oh and this little rupture in your liver had been slowly bleeding, the spleen too, fuck, how hard did they hit you? And which idiot gave you Aspirin when you’re already bleeding? Jesus, why didn’t you call me in earlier?”

“That idiot might have been me… sorry, I didn’t have anything else around,” Jesus said with a low voice, obviously feeling a little guilty. “And we were… outside, we just arrived here, so that’s why I didn’t call you in earlier…”

“Why are you lying?” she asked, not even looking up to Jesus.

“I’m not—“

“Don’t you even dare! I can feel your heart beat picking up from here,” she said and touched Daryl’s cheeks. “He could have died. Ah, and there is the concussion, they didn’t go easy on you, did they? But there you go, almost new again!”

She gave him a flashing smile and stood back up to turn around to Jesus with an accusing expression pinned on her face.

It was a weird feeling, but Daryl suddenly felt completely normal again. No pain whatsoever. All of it had been a weird experience to him altogether since he wasn’t used to injuries remaining for long, or pain, but now he nearly felt back to normal. As normal as one could feel after a part of them had been stolen and implemented into someone else.

“So these people abducted him and stole his powers?” Tara asked. “Which powers, anyway? Shooting arrows?”

She laughed about her own joke and earned a sharp look from Denise.

“What? He’s that pathetic Robin Hood dude playing superhero. Well, actually for the wrong people, so supervillain it is, I guess. Didn’t your brother get captured and put into supermax because he was working for The Governor? One should assume that it should’ve taught you not to play with the bad guys.”

Daryl stared at her, anger flaring up inside his stomach, but before he could even blink, Denise walked up in front of her girlfriend and raised her hands.

“Calm down, cowboy, we don’t need drama right now,” she warned him.

“Well, as it turns out, he actually does have powers,” Jesus said and explained to them how Daryl had known about them.

Tara was still suspicious though, and shook her head. “How do we know that they didn’t spy on us and found out all those things, and now they sent him to… I don’t know, infiltrate and then kill us with our pants down in the bathroom?”

“I could have done that fifteen years ago while you still wore pigtails and braces, I kept it all a secret until now, the secret about everyone for as long as I lived.”

“You’re lying,” Denise said with a hard tone in her voice.

The atmosphere suddenly tensed up, he saw how Jesus flexed his muscles and got ready to attack within mere seconds and he couldn’t help but feel the unusual fear again that he wasn’t used to. Losing his healing powers had affected him in more ways than he’d have liked to admit.

“Calm down,” she said to Jesus quickly. “He’s not completely telling a lie, just the part about keeping secrets. He’s not a threat right now, he’s even scared of you.”

“Ain’t scared,” Daryl protested and glared at both of them. “And ain’t lying either, the only people I ratted out… was… The Governor and my own brother…”

Silence fell over the room like a heavy blanket. Daryl wasn’t proud he had stabbed his brother in the back, but at that time, it had been the only way to help and protect him from the people he had worked for. He knew his brother probably wouldn’t ever forgive him, but he’d rather have a brother who hated him but was still alive than a dead one.

“Well, so, what power did they steal then if you can still feel folks?” Tara asked, still reluctant to believe what she had heard.

“His healing powers,” Jesus answered for him.

“What? That’s cool, we’re colleagues?” Denise asked and her face brightened up suddenly.

“Not exactly, he could only heal himself.”

“Oh, that’s interesting, and still very cool. I wish I could heal myself! I’m kind of jealous now.”

“Well, he lost it,” Tara said with a snort. “Which was obvious a few minutes ago.”

“Oh, yeah…”

“Are ya gonna help me or am I just wasting my fuckin’ time here?” He hadn’t intended to raise his voice but he was losing his patience. If they weren’t willing to help, then he’d have to see how he dealt with this himself.

He’d rather kill himself before Negan could use him for his schemes. If that was what he’d had to do to protect the others from his powers being abused, he’d do it.

“Man, this guy has mixed feelings alright, I think a therapy session would do him some good,” Denise said, shaking her head. “Of course we’ll help you, no need to go drama queen and kill yourself over this, we’ll find a way.”

The others both looked surprised about what she’d said and Daryl felt embarrassingly revealing heat rising up his cheeks and neck.

“Right, guys?” she pressed further when no one answered.

“Absolutely,” Jesus agreed. “We’ll have to find that scientist and the guy that got your powers first.”

 

***

 

Denise’s last remark had thankfully shut Tara’s suspicious behavior down at last. Paul knew why she’d acted like that, the topic of The Governor hit home with her because her family got hurt because of him, and seeing this guy who was associated with him and who was the brother of a criminal that was put behind bars, hadn’t helped her being too open minded about Daryl Dixon.

Paul knew the meaning behind what Denise had said and he knew that she hadn’t said that randomly either. It had been deliberate information she’d shared with them. Very important information when they hadn’t known how much they could trust this guy. Not only had she made clear that this whole situation, and probably Paul’s own aggressive behavior against him, had caused him to be scared, and someone that had a well planned ulterior motive probably wouldn’t be scared that easily. But she had also pointed out that he was intending to kill himself for the sake of public welfare. Paul was a hundred percent sure that that was something not an ordinary bad guy would be willing to do for other people. The Archer had at least considered ending his own life to protect the lives of hundreds of others, and that disposition alone said more about him and his character than a thousand words.

“Man, I didn’t know you could drive a car yourself. I only ever see you being driven everywhere by your driver.”

Paul merely chuckled and didn’t respond to Tara. She was sitting in the backseat beside Denise while they were driving through dark and busy city streets later that day. When they operated together, they usually met at a random place, it wasn’t that often that nearly all of them set out on a mission like this together, because they tried not to be too suspicious and traveling separately was often safer to blend in with the surroundings without attracting attention.

They all—except for Daryl who was still wearing Paul’s civilian clothes—had changed into their superhero outfits. It wasn’t really that safe to drive around the city in costume in your own car in case people took notice and backtracked the vehicle, but Paul was driving one of his camouflage cars that didn’t stick out too much and had a fake license plate. He knew whom to pay well for these cars; he usually didn’t use them for too long and swapped them with another one regularly. Many superhumans used illegal transportations to avoid getting caught by the police or other people, there was a big black market around these in the underground, but Paul preferred to stay clear from those and tried to purchase his from safe sources he trusted more than random dealers.

He hadn’t worked with Tara and Denise for that long, it only had been a year since they’d agreed to join forces and it had worked quite well until now. Maggie, on the other hand, he’d known since college and she’d been the one he had worked with since then, but after she’d gotten married and been busy with mayoral election, she had gone on less and less missions with him. And now, with her pregnancy, she’d told him she would stop doing these for a while and concentrate on changing the city and fighting crime with her legal daily job instead of with a mask. Maggie had introduced him and Denise to each other. She was a practicing psychiatrist who had specialized on children and adolescents, and she’d been the attending physician to Maggie’s sister Beth when she’d been hospitalized. Denise had brought along Tara, who’d been in desperate need for a day-job back then, because the illness of her father required a lot of money for treatment. Paul had offered her a well-paying job as his personal assistant, and since then they had grown into a team naturally.

“Are you seeing or feeling anything yet?” he asked Daryl, who was sitting in the passenger’s seat and looking outside the window, the worried anxiety of the day before radiating from him again.

He had stayed at his apartment the whole day for safety reasons while the rest of them had went to work.

Daryl shook his head. “Nah, if they search for me, they’ll probably look at locations I usually frequent. But this part of the town is too far away from those places for me to feel anything. We’ll have to wait until we get closer.”

This could take more time than they wanted, so Paul was glad he still had asked his I.T. guys to find out the addresses, even though Daryl had insisted that he could find them himself. Unfortunately, they hadn’t gotten back to him with it yet, so there was no other choice at the moment than trusting Daryl’s abilities.

“What if we go back where you had been held prisoner?” Tara asked. “They should be there, right?”

“They blindfolded me, I don’t know where that was.”

“But you escaped, right? Didn’t you look around? Was there maybe a shop or something else you remember?”

Daryl didn’t answer for a moment. “I… don’t remember. Was injured and… I just ran.”

“Oh, but it has to be around Jesus’s penthouse, right?” Tara said. “Since you found him through your powers?”

Paul stopped the car at a red light and couldn’t resist glancing towards Daryl nervously. He didn’t know exactly why he kept his other apartment a secret from his friends, but he’d never talked to anyone apart from his parents about his past. Not even Maggie; for some reason, he didn’t want this to be a big deal. They of course knew that he was adopted, but they’d never asked more about it, probably not expecting that there’d be much to tell since he’d been so young when it had happened.

Daryl returned his look for a second before he cleared his throat and said, “Nah, I think I ran for a while until I felt him, it’s all blurred now though, can’t tell anymore. Y’all heard what Doc said, had a concussion remember?”

“Right,” Denise said, emphasizing that word in a weird way. Paul closed his eyes and sighed, of course she’d picked that up. “If we don’t want to attract attention of everyone, it’s safer to search them outside that place, right? Kidnap them without the others noticing.”

He was thankful that she hadn’t been persistent about that, but he couldn’t help but feel guilty about it. “Tara, could you help him?” Paul asked and looked through the rearview mirror at her.

“Err, you mean… ah yeah, of course!”

She unbuckled herself to shift a little closer toward the passenger’s seat. “Usually this also works without me feeling people up, but it’s more effective this way,” she said and put her hand on his shoulder.

Suddenly, Daryl hissed, squeezed his eyes shut, clenched his jaws, and his whole body tensed up.

“Honey, go easy on him, his brain is about to explode and he _will_ vomit!” Denise exclaimed and pulled Tara’s arm back, releasing Daryl again.

Beads of sweat had formed on his forehead within seconds and he panted hard when he opened his eyes again.

“Sorry, she’s impatient sometimes,” Denise said and patted Daryl’s shoulder, probably making him feel better already with the light touches.

“Did it help?” Tara asked, ignoring her girlfriend. “Did you feel anything?”

“Fucking—yeah I felt somethin’ alright,” Daryl said, irritated. “Fuckin’ felt the whole damn continent.”

Tara’s powers were psychic, and part of them was being able to amplify other’s superpowers. Paul knew first-hand that it wasn’t exactly a pleasant feeling when she used them while actually touching you. And he also knew that, especially in his case, it could be extremely dangerous. Paul could control his powers now, he wasn’t a child anymore, but he remembered what had happened when they had tested this, out of curiosity, far away from civilization, at a place the US had used for nuclear tests, and the outcome had been disastrous. The huge explosion he had caused unwillingly had nearly killed Tara herself, even though her powers usually protected her from any harm and he’d never seen her get hurt before. Denise had been at a safe distance during the experiment, and had saved Tara’s life. Since then, she hadn’t even tried to amplify his powers from a distance, even though it would probably be safe to do that. It wasn’t worth the risk, though, and since it was enough for him to lose control over his emotions to become dangerous to others, he also preferred not to increase that risk.

Imagining his powers in the hands of Negan was a nightmare, and he knew that all of their powers would be on his shopping list since Negan had asked them to join his gang a few times already during several encounters.

“Well, we only need two people, did you feel _them_?” Tara asked impatiently.

Paul felt his mobile vibrate in his pocket and pulled it out.

“Felt _every_ fuckin’ person, even the ordinary ones—everyone,” Daryl said, shaking his head. “But just that, felt everything at once, too much, the only thing it gave me was a fucking stroke.”

“Damn, let me try again without touching.”

“No need,” Paul said suddenly with a wide grin and raised his mobile phone to wave with it. “I got their addresses.”

 

***

 

Daryl didn’t know why he’d lied for Paul Rovia even though he had known that the Doc, who somehow could read his mind, wouldn’t buy it. When their eyes had met, though, he had seen something in them that had made him make up his mind quickly. Plus, it was none of his business if the prick didn’t want to share that information with the rest, and he sure as hell wouldn’t be the one to snitch.

“You’re gonna stay in the car,” Jesus said after stopping the car in a deserted narrow side street.

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“You’re not… at the height of your powers, and also, you’re not masked right now.”

“Doesn’t matter, they know my face already.”

“But the rest of the world doesn’t, so if anyone saw you with us out there, it could be a problem for you.”

“Man, I don’t give a fuck, I ain’t stayin’ in the damn car.”

“Eh, then just give him a mask? You can have my scarf to put around your face if you want?” Tara suggested and offered her scarf to him.

Daryl took it and ignored the sharp look Jesus gave both of them.

“Alright, whatever, won’t be my fault if he pulls a gun on you and shoots.”

“The reason Doc is here, right?” Daryl said and tied the scarf around the lower part of his face.

“Dude, I can’t bring you back if your brain is dead. At least, I have never tried before…”

“What if he shoots _you_ in the face?” Daryl snapped. “Maybe I had healing powers before, but all of you don’t, so what’s the problem?”

“I can block bullets,” Tara said with a shrug. “And Jesus’s skin is impenetrable, has to be, the way he blows up sometimes, or he’d have killed himself already.”

“Shut up,” Jesus said and they both laughed, probably about an inside joke Daryl didn’t understand.

“So, let’s go!” Denise said and was the first to leave the car.

Outside, they talked about how they’d corner Dr. Porter before dividing into two groups. Tara, Denise, and Daryl took the stairs up to his apartment from the main entrance, and Jesus would find another way up to join them later. Daryl had seen him climb and take dangerous jumps up in high buildings, so he could imagine what he was up to while they were jogging up the stairs.

What he couldn’t have imagined, though, was the face that would greet them instead of Dr. Porter’s when they knocked on his door.

“Well, well, well, didn’t I tell you guys that we didn’t have to search for him? That he’d come back right into my arms? Interesting fashion choice, though, that blue scarf around your face, makes your pretty blue eyes just _pop_.”

The sudden shock that hit Daryl’s chest nearly made it impossible to breathe when he saw at least twelve of Negan’s men behind him, some of them pointing their guns at them, some of them somewhere else.

“Oh and will you look at that, he brought us some guests!”

Negan turned around, arms spread wide with a huge grin on his face. “Nuh-uh, where are your manners, guys? Let’s _greet_ them properly. Come on in, we were waiting for you longingly!”

Tara stepped beside him and lifted her hands, but she stopped suddenly when she saw what Daryl had seen earlier.

“Fuck,” she whispered, and then said louder, “Let them go!”

“I don’t think so,” Negan said and cocked his head. “I want my Daryl back. Little birdies told me that he could be even more useful to me than I had thought.”

Daryl didn’t answer, he was too busy to scan Negan’s captives to make sure they weren’t harmed. Glenn, Maggie, Beth. All three of them were kneeling with guns pointed at their heads.

“Oh, don’t you worry about my other guests, they are perfectly healthy! For now. Actually, I only wanted to take this Rhee guy with us, you know, your buddy from the police, I bet you both have missed each other very much since you had to work for me and couldn’t stay in touch anymore. I thought I’d surprise and reunite you! But as fate has ordained, they were having a lovely family dinner together. So who am I to be so rude as to not invite the ladies too? Right?”

Silence stretched out in the living room for a moment until Daryl found his ability to speak again, he stepped forward and said, “Let them go, you only want me.”

“Oh no, that’s not true. Since you were so nice to bring along new friends, I want them too now, Daryl. Especially that fierce-looking brunette, oh yes, honey, I know what you can do, you fucked up a few of my men before and I quite like the way you can fuck people up. I want that for my team.” He stepped to the side to get a better look at Denise and pulled his eyebrows together. “Don’t know if we’ve met before, mysteriously masked gorgeous one, but I’m sure you can also offer something useful to me, being a fucking superhero and all. What’s your power? Tell me.”

Denise didn’t answer, she just stared at him, partly hiding behind Tara. Daryl didn’t know why she’d come with them in the first place. She wasn’t a fighter, at least as far as Daryl knew. Her abilities were very useful, but she was also very vulnerable and usually kept to the background to help out, without stepping into the crossfire.

Negan’s smile only got wider and even more malicious, he sucked air through his teeth slowly, and to Daryl’s surprise, he just let it go.

“Now,” he said and started to pace up and down. “Since you’re all so heroic, I bet you won’t want to see any of these people here get hurt, right? Therefore, I think it won’t be too hard for you to hand yourselves over and come with me, peacefully.”

“Leave them out of this, I will go with you peacefully,” Daryl said.

Of course he couldn’t just do that, he couldn’t risk the rest of his ability being stolen, so he’d need to find a way to kill himself if he fell into their hands before Negan found out about it—if he hadn’t already, and Daryl dreaded that he actually did. Although, he was absolutely sure that apart from the Dixons, and now Jesus, Denise, and Tara, no one knew about his powers.

“I appreciate that, Daryl,” Negan said and walked up to him, close enough to be only inches apart from his face.

Daryl didn’t shrink back, he knew that invading other people’s personal space was one of his ways to intimidate them.

“I appreciate it, but still, I don’t appreciate what you did and I still don’t think you paid for that. So this guy was the person you gave information about me, wasn’t it? What do you think I should do to him now? Of course, it wouldn’t solve any of my problems to kill him now since he probably already has filed all of it neatly into a nice folder and put it somewhere to wait for me to get fucked over so it can be pulled out to fuck me over even more. And I don’t like that. Not at all.”

Negan stepped back, sardonic smile still in place, and turned around to his hostages. “That’s why one of you lovely ladies will also come with me so my new friend here can make all of that go _whoosh_ and disappear. Or else…” Negan walked to one of his men and held his hand out. The other guy pulled a wired baseball bat up and gave it to him. “You won’t like what happens.”

Daryl’s heartbeat picked up when he saw the baseball bat. He had seen it before, everything had been normal last time he had, but now, after he had touched it, suddenly he could feel power emanating from it, power flowing into Negan slowly until he didn’t feel any different to Daryl than any other superhuman. But that wasn’t what bothered him the most.

“You can feel it, can’t you?” Negan asked and laughed. “You wonder what happened, don’t you? If you’re a good boy, maybe I will share my secret with you, Darlina.”

Daryl breathed out suddenly, as if he’d been sucker-punched, his chest squeezed around his heart, making him feel like suffocating.

“He could be alive,” he grinned. “But who knows, right? Maybe not? Depends. I see you didn’t see that coming, I’m disappointed in you, really, for underestimating me. That will teach you, right? I bet it will. Have you ever met a shape shifter before?”

He didn’t know how to respond, he didn’t know what to think, what to say, how to breathe. But he knew why he hadn’t felt the power in the bat before it had been activated through Negan’s touch, he knew, because he was familiar with it. And yet, he wished it wasn’t true.

Merle had the ability to transfer his powers into inanimate objects, making it impossible for Daryl to feel them then, and he also could transfer them into other people, lending them his powers. But if he had lent his powers to Negan, he only would be able to use them temporarily, not control the transferring himself like he just had done. Merle hadn’t lent him his powers, Negan had stolen them from him, just as he had stolen his. Now, Daryl knew where Negan had gotten his information about him from. If one day had been enough to break Merle into telling him such a secret, and stealing his powers, he didn’t want to imagine what he’d done to him.

“Where is he?”

“Well, but you didn’t answer my question, Daryl, this is no fun! Shape shifters, you see, are very useful as undercover agents as you might imagine, their cover won’t be blown as easily as yours. See, they are also very useful for many other things, such as, pretending to be your brother while he is not where he should be anymore.”

“ _Where is he_?”

“Oh, you will see him soon enough, no worries. Now, be a good boy and kneel.”

Daryl couldn’t move.

“ _Kneel_.”

Negan lost his patience to ask another time, so he lifted his bat and walked towards Beth. The girl whimpered and started crying. Maggie at her side didn’t let Negan out of her sight for even one second, and Daryl knew that she was getting ready to attack him, he also knew that she would be able to protect both Glenn and Beth from him, but his men with the guns were the problem. There were too many guns pointed at them.

Daryl got down on his knees.

“Good boy, now the others kneel.”

“Fuck you!” Tara said for the first time in what felt like hours. “Do you think that fucking bat is scaring us? Just fucking try anything and you’re dead.”

“Shut up!” Daryl told her.

“ _You_ shut up, he’s an ordinary, I’m not afraid of him and his toy.”

“Daryl, your hot friend is challenging me and I don’t like that,” Negan said.

“Fuck you!” Tara said under her breath and raised her hands, pushing them forward with force.

Daryl wanted to yell ‘No’, but it was too late.

Many things happened at once. Within milliseconds, a powerful wave of energy shot towards Negan and his men, Maggie dissolved into mist and surrounded Glenn and Beth like a protective shield, one of Negan’s men panicked upon seeing that and started to shoot at the hostages, Negan swang his bat and hit into the air, causing the energy wave to be reflected back at Tara, Denise, and Daryl, and one of the windows exploded with a loud bang, flashes blinding everyone and causing two of Negan’s men to fall to the ground with a loud cry. The next second, the energy wave hit the three of them with full force, Tara was able to shield herself and Denise from it, but Daryl, who had been kneeling a few feet in front of them, took the brunt of it and flew backwards, smashing into the wall. Everything went black after that.

 

***

 

There was not much time to recover from his explosive entrance, there were already several men shooting at him. Jesus knew that bullets weren’t dangerous for him—his body could withstand a lot more than any of the other superhuman’s—but they were for everyone else in the room, and the moment he saw who else was in this room, trying to protect her family in her mist-form from the men shooting, he felt rage welling up inside him. He knew that Maggie couldn’t last long in that form, so he lunged forward, jump-kicking a muscular guy in the chest who had tried to block his path. Suddenly, he felt arms closing around himself, trying to pull him backwards, so he put his hands on theirs and electrified them for a moment. When he let go of the man, he fell down on the ground and didn’t move anymore.

Jesus looked back to Maggie and had to suppress the horrific feeling that was about to paralyze him—she already had lost her mist-form and got punched in the face. Beth screamed and followed her sister to the ground, trying to help her up again, but then it happened: a bloodcurdling shot, blood, and a limp body.

He charged his blades and jumped into a group of men, slicing into two of them and taking out another two in one smooth move. He usually was very careful not to put too much power into his attacks since he was fighting against ordinary humans and didn’t want to kill any of them accidentally, but that caution had been put aside when they had shot Maggie. His mind still couldn’t process what was happening, but his body was ready to crush anyone who dared to step into his way. And that was also what he did, he left a path of severely injured, unconscious men behind him before he reached Maggie and her family. Glenn and Beth were both kneeling at her side, screaming and crying, but Paul knew that everything would be alright when he saw Denise sneaking away from behind Tara, who was fighting Negan on her own now in a seemingly never-ending war of blasts and pulses, and running towards them.

Then he saw him, a fat guy creeping over the lifeless body of Daryl Dixon and grabbing him.

“Get him out of here!” Negan yelled at him and blocked one of Tara’s attacks.

Jesus ran and tackled the guy down before a sudden force hit him from the side and threw him off balance.

“Who invited _this_ asshole to the party?!” Negan screamed and forwarded another of Tara’s shock waves towards Jesus that hit him square in the chest and pushed him back against the wall.

Negan turned to look around then for the first time and his eyes grew wide when he took the whole scene in: all of his men were down and he was practically outnumbered.

He cursed and started running towards Tara, still reflecting all her attacks, and pushed her out of his way, surprising her so much that she fell over, because normally, no one was able to even touch her thanks to the power force she built up around her body. It was the first time that Jesus actually had seen that happen, but there was no time to think, he saw Daryl regaining consciousness and the fat guy getting back up on his feet and waving his gun around in panic when he realized that his leader had abandoned and left him behind.

“Fucking freaks, don’t come near me!” he shrieked and stumbled towards the exit, mostly pointing the gun at Daryl, but glaring at Jesus. “I will kill him! He’s not bullet proof like you freaks, I will do it! Don’t move!”

Tara hadn’t yet gotten up again, which worried Jesus, but he couldn’t let that man out of his sight—Jesus was fast, but not as fast as a bullet, he knew that he couldn’t protect Daryl if something went wrong, so he raised his hands as a sign of surrender and hoped that he would just run without causing more damage.

The moment he was about to slip through the door, Tara moved and startled him. His gun went off and Jesus speeded up as fast as he could towards Daryl to at least _try_ to shield him from the bullet, even if he knew that he’d never make it if the fucker had aimed well. The next second, they were both on the ground, Jesus on top of him and everything went quiet.

He looked up and saw that the man had already fled. Tara sat up slowly and touched her chest, obviously in pain, but well enough to calm Paul’s nerves. When he looked back down, he saw two dark blue eyes gazing up at him, slowly blinking.

“Man, ya fuckin’ love jumpin’ on me,” he whispered and closed his eyes again with a heavy sigh.

“How are you feeling?” Paul asked, pulling back a little to inspect the rest of Daryl’s body, looking for a life threatening bullet wound that he didn’t find.

“I feel sick. I hate being this weak, passed out because I hit the fucking wall, what the fuck, how do people even live like this.”

Relief washed over him—they were all unharmed, well at least nothing Denise couldn’t fix. It had been a long time since a mission had gone utterly wrong like this and had them all sweating and actually fearing that it might end badly. Paul started laughing suddenly and rested his head against The Archer’s chest.

“Guys, we should leave, I’m hearing sirens,” Tara said and stood up with a moan. “Whatever the fucker did to me, it fucking hurts, damn.”

“I’m just making sure none of these assholes are dead, and then we are good to go,” Denise answered.

“What? Just like that? You’re going to leave us here?” Glenn asked. “Daryl!!”

“Man, don’t shit your pants, your colleagues are coming and I am not in the mood to answer questions okay,” Tara said.

“It’s okay,” Maggie said. “We’ll be fine, let them go.”

“We’re not fine! And what… happened to you… like…”

“We’ll talk later,” Maggie said resolutely.

“Dude, could you get off me, I’m not your pillow,” Daryl grunted and shifted underneath him. “Are you losing yer mind? Laughing like a crazy person?”

“Sorry,” Paul answered with a low chuckle, got up to his feet, and offered Daryl his hand. “Come on, let’s go.”

Daryl hesitated for a moment before taking his hand and letting him help him up.

Back at the car, Tara got behind the wheel and didn’t waste a second before driving.

They all put down their masks and watched police cars pass them with angry and loud sirens. This time, Paul and Daryl sat in the back while Denise navigated Tara through quieter side streets. Paul turned his head and watched Daryl for a moment, who was looking outside the window and rubbing his head, lost in thought.

“Hey,” Paul said and nudged his arm slightly. Daryl let his arm drop and turned towards him. “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault,” he answered with a shrug.

“Was me that brought us there.”

“They were already waiting, man they even kidnapped Glenn, Maggie, and Beth, and… they were prepared. It’s not on you, you probably saved our asses in there, not that I saw any of what happened…”

“I fucking saved _your_ ass in there at least ten times, you’re very welcome, asshole,” Tara said and laughed. “Must’ve been nice for you to have a nap and wake up snuggled up together with a hot guy, instead of being helpful.”

Daryl averted his eyes and avoided eye contact with him for a while after Tara’s joke. Paul pulled his eyebrows together and wondered if this tough-looking-guy actually felt embarrassed because of that harmless comment.

“Hey,” he said again and pushed with his knuckles against Daryl’s thigh. This time, he didn’t look up, but Paul still continued talking, “We _will_ find a way to get your powers back.”

Daryl nodded and looked out of the window again.

After Tara and Denise had hopped out near their neighborhood, Paul drove the car again.

“Should I drop you off somewhere?” he asked Daryl after they had been silent for a while.

“Can’t go back to my apartment…”

“Do you have friends you could stay with?”

“Can’t get them involved.”

“You could stay at my place.”

“Can’t ask that of you either.”

“Well, I won’t just let you sleep under a bridge, Dixon, your ability is too valuable to fall into the wrong hands for that.”

Which was true, but Paul knew that he also didn’t _want_ to leave him alone now if he didn’t have anywhere to go. And he still hadn’t asked him how he knew Maggie and Beth. The way he had said their names, it had sounded familiar. He knew that he was working with the police and was acquainted with Rhee, maybe that was the connection, but it was strange to him that Maggie shouldn’t have mentioned him before. Or maybe she had and he hadn’t taken notice. Still, there was a lot to talk about, especially since it looked like they would work together from now on, at least until he got his power back and didn’t rely so much on help anymore.

“So, I didn’t know Negan had powers before, why didn’t you tell us?” he asked after they entered his penthouse. “We were completely unprepared, didn’t know he had any superhumans in his team at all.”

“Turns out he also has fucking shape shifters in his team.”

“What? You kidding? Seriously, how come you didn’t _know_?”

Daryl walked towards the couch and dropped himself on it, sighing deep and rubbing his head again. Denise had wanted to check him over since he had passed out, but Daryl had refused.

“I didn’t, cause I can’t feel shape shifters if they shift into an ordinary human form,” he explained, matter-of-factly. “They can suppress any sign that would give them away. Hate them, sneaky little bastards.”

Paul could even feel the frustration without Denise’s powers, and it somehow made him smile. He walked over and let himself fall into one of the armchairs, trying to process what had happened that night.

“Is Negan also a shape shifter then, if you didn’t know before?”

“Nah.”

He waited for him to continue, but it didn’t seem like Dixon actually intended to go into details about that.

“So?”

“What?”

“How come he suddenly has powers… oh…” While talking he had realized himself how Negan probably could’ve gotten powers all of a sudden when there hadn’t been any sign of them before, and he felt like a complete idiot.“Fuck, who do you think he stole them from?”

Daryl didn’t answer—again—and Paul wished to have the ability to read feelings like Denise could, to guess what might be going on in his head right now. But something about the way Daryl’s face suddenly had gone dark told him that there might be more.

“You know who it is, don’t you?”

Silence.

“You’re like a superhuman-index on two legs, man, come on.”

For a second, Paul thought that he had seen the hint of a smile on his face after his remark before he had snorted and hidden his face in the palms of his hands. He rubbed his face, letting his exhaustion show, and sighed again. Then, after what felt like minutes, he let his hands drop, straightened himself, and looked him straight in the eyes, any sign of humor or exhaustion gone, and he said with his low and rough voice, “Yeah, I know who it is. They hold him prisoner, I don’t know if he’s still alive…”

His voice broke, and he stopped talking.

“Who is it?” Paul asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

“My brother,” he whispered with a shaken voice. “They got my brother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: reference to physical abuse, mention of self harm, gunshots, but I promise they all survive!


	9. The Merman

* * *

Fanart by [belphegor-chyan](http://belphegor-chyan.tumblr.com/)

 


	10. Softly, on High

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After an accident, Paul meets someone claiming something absurd in the most ordinary way.

 

This might’ve been Paul’s worst week ever. Even worse than the week his foster sister brought home lice and the whole family had to use stinging chemical shampoo. Probably worse than the week in junior high when he was dumped by his boyfriend of six months, he flunked his biology exam, and the school had a break-in that saw his guitar walk out of the building, all in the span of two days. Quite possibly worse than the week his apartment flooded and he spent five days in a hotel room with a negligible amount of hot water a day and he learned that 12-hour shifts and two hours of sleep did _not_ mix.

 

He recalled a brief thought about how he was going to make it to his shift on time after his appointment downtown at the auto shop, then glancing in the rear-view mirror to see an impatient white truck passing him. He remembered his tire popping, pulling desperately into the skid, slowing as much as was safe as the highway barrelled on around him, thinking he’d gotten the car stabilized, then seeing a jersey barrier coming towards him way too fast. Next, he was upside-down, hanging from his seatbelt with blood going up his nose and his shoulders slouching out of their sockets.

 

His ears were ringing and his vision fuzzy, but the blood slowly dripping backwards up his face, from a wound in his chin over his lips and up his nose, was like water torture, the steady, persisting drip-drip-drip feel of it making him hideously nauseous. He undid his seatbelt, collapsing on the ceiling of the buggy and letting out a pathetic moan as his shoulder took all of his weight.

 

After that, he recalled a pair of strong arms pulling him from the wreck and across the pavement, his jacket riding up his back and his bare skin scraping against the road, before he fell unconscious.

 

Yeah, not the best way to start the week.

 

Paul’s head throbbed as he awoke, a flat plane of grey gravel meeting his tilted gaze. He lay on his side with his jacket underneath him, blood drying on his face and elbow throbbing like no one’s business.

 

Recovery position was difficult to accidently roll into, so Paul looked hazily around for his saviour. He found a man sitting on the barrier, the same of which had nearly done-in Paul, and certainly made quick work of his Suburban, which lay in a wreck across from him—smoking a cigarette and looking idly into the distance.

 

Paul tried to push himself up with the arm that was on top, which turned out to be a terrible idea. His entire arm throbbed, not to mention his head, which felt like it was going to tear open like a cheaply-done seam.

 

“Don’t sit up,” the man remarked, “your elbow’s fucked.”

 

Paul didn’t need any more convincing and put his head back down on his folded-up jacket. He peeked up at the stranger through clouded eyes. The late afternoon sun was haloing the man nicely, and maybe it was the blood loss and/or possible concussion happening in Paul’s head, but he looked pretty handsome, if a bit shaggy. He was slouching on the barrier, his broad shoulders hunched, a sleeveless top showing off a pair of weathered arms, long legs bent, the left one bouncing slightly with unease. His hair was long and messy, covering his eyes that were deep-set and bruised. _God damn_ , Paul thought, then, as another pain sliced through his head, _god._ _Damn_.

 

“Thanks for the assist,” Paul slurred, “my name’s Paul. But my friends call me uh…Jesus,” he struggled to remember for a moment, his brain currently occupied with a massive clean-up operation and having trouble focusing on trivial things like his own name. He imagined the inside of his cranium currently littered with “wet floor” and “danger: falling rocks” signs and let out a puff of a laugh.

 

“Daryl,” the man mumbled, his voice cracked by the smoke.

 

The stranger seemed awfully calm about the whole car-wreck situation, smoking silently as the highway sounded loudly behind him, cars racing by without even noticing. The barrier and slight slope of hill hid the wreck of Paul’s car; maybe no one going by even noticed it. Where did Daryl come from, then? He might’ve been from the gas station slash diner up the road, and well used to accidents, working so close to the highway. Paul didn’t see any other cars around, and just noticed then that Daryl’s feet were bare.

 

“Ambulance is on its way,” Daryl muttered before Paul could ask, and Paul attempted to nod, which resulted in a splitting pain so intense he could’ve cried. He muttered back “good”, instead, squeezing his eyes shut.

 

When he could focus his vision again, Paul observed the man perched above him. It looked like he just landed there, solitary, keen-eyed, like a bird of prey on a lamppost. The idea of himself being carried off by an eagle, like Ganymede, rushed into Paul’s mind and he struggled to grin.

 

Paul winced. He was clearly concussed, his brain knocked upside-down. He groaned and tried to stay awake.

 

“How’d you find me?” Paul slurred, peering up at Daryl. The sun had retreated low behind his frame, outlining it in a coppery glow.

 

“Was lookin’ around, saw you down there, came over,” Daryl answered, like it was nothing, crushing out his cigarette on the cement.

 

Paul hummed his understanding. This time, another image came into his mind, so absurd, he couldn’t help but chuckle at the thought.

 

“You’re like a guardian angel,” Paul smiled, raising his hand to his forehead to hide his eyes from the slash of sun.

 

“Ain’t like one, I _am_ one,” Daryl answered, and Paul nodded.

 

Of course, makes sense.

 

Wait, what?

 

“Are you serious?” Paul asked, and Daryl frowned at him. Even through the 3D-film vision, Paul could see those eyes darkened by a furrowed brow.

 

“’Course I’m serious,” Daryl replied, and Paul tried to scan his face for the truth. It was really hard to look for tells when turned at a ninety-degree angle—wait, truth? Why was he even considering this an option? Clearly he was hallucinating and had pulled _himself_ out of that wreck. Then again, was there any other explanation for a man who seemed to appear out of nowhere and save him from asphyxiating on his own fluids? There probably was, but Paul’s “currently under construction, will reopen soon” brain couldn’t think of a one.

 

“Well, then,” Paul garbled, “my very own guardian angel.”

 

“Not yours,” Daryl corrected, “just a one.”

 

 _Oh._ Just a guardian angel _in general_.

 

Paul giggled. Full-on _giggled_. He wondered if he was losing control of his body as well as his brain, as he felt his body start to tremble, like he was going into shock. He swallowed hard.

 

“O-okay,” Paul challenged, struggling just to keep his eyes open. He cradled his injured arm in the crook of the other, folded against his chest between his blood-dappled shirt and the gravel. “Prove it. Prove you’re an angel. Fly. Show me a miracle or something.”

 

“Yeah, sure,” Daryl said, “I’ll show you somethin’,” he stretched out his hand to Paul, middle finger up.

 

Paul laughed. Laughed until his sides hurt and his head was killing. He couldn’t talk anymore, not even to make a smart-ass comment, the pain was too massive, and Daryl looked a little perturbed. He stepped off of the barrier and crouched by Paul, studying his crumpled form. Then, he put out his hand and touched Paul’s scalp. Just one finger, but suddenly Paul felt his nerves quiet, his hands stop shaking, and his head cool. He also felt way more relaxed. Relaxed enough to forget about the possibility of worsening his concussion and just drift right off to sleep.

 

“What was that? Was that a miracle?” Paul rambled, and Daryl just frowned at him.

 

“Just don’t move ’til the ambulance gets here,” he said, and Paul watched his vision fade until there was nothing.

 

~*~

 

Paul hadn’t been in a hospital since he was 11 years old, but he was pleased to see the dry, medicine-flavoured air, unsettling distant whines and whispers, and drab décor was just like he remembered it.

 

Maggie’d brought herself to his bedside despite having a new baby at home, insisting up and down that she was totally happy to leave the day in the care of a nanny, which honestly just made Paul feel worse. He’d ended up with an amount of staples up the back of his forearm that frankly made him feel more machine than man, a bruise that traveled from his belly to his shoulder the width of a nylon seatbelt, swollen knees and an aching skull. He also received stitches to a gash under his chin, for which his beard had been choppily shaved away, but only in that spot, leaving a ridiculous gap in the hair. He showed no sign of concussion, but Maggie, whose little sister had been a nurse, assured him it was “mostly a crapshoot” when it came to actually knowing whether he would suffer any long-term effects from being forcibly rendered unconscious.

 

Paul revealed his story piece by piece, out of order and in between sips of his juicebox, and Maggie nodded along politely, clearly doubtful. She was a believer, but she was also a woman of logic, and logic was something lost from Paul’s recollection.

 

“He had no shoes, I mean, if _that_ isn’t a sign,” Paul said, and Maggie raised an elegant eyebrow at him.

 

“ _Jesus_ was the one who walked barefoot through the desert, honey,” she answered, shooting him a teasing look.

 

“But he just appeared! Like, out of nowhere. And it was in the middle of the highway, Maggie. No one should’ve been there,” Paul continued, licking his parched lips. He let out a sigh. “I don’t sound too insane, do I?”

 

“You sound like you should’ve gotten his number,” Maggie teased, and Paul rolled his eyes.

 

“I would have. I don’t think he even had a phone, he used mine to call the ambulance—another sign,” he tipped his head at her, looking up through his brow.

 

Maggie offered him a sympathetic smile, one that said she wanted to believe him, but just couldn’t. The sentiment was enough to make Paul feel like he wasn’t going completely crazy, and he smiled warmly back at her as she said her goodbye and returned home, leaving him alone.

 

Paul’s room, shared with three other beds, two of which were occupied, looked less crowded after dark, when he awoke in the little hours of the morning needing to use the toilet. The lights were down, turning the room the same navy blue as the sky outside, a few emergency lights in strategic corners taking the place of stars. He pulled the covers off of his legs and climbed out of bed—too fast, apparently, as he tumbled to the floor immediately after.

 

Swimming with the fatigue of disuse, his legs simply gave way, and Paul collapsed on his hands, flinching at the stress on his elbow before he fell flat on his face. He groaned and tried to roll over to no avail, hoping only that his sorry display hadn’t awoken any of his roommates. To his chagrin, however, he heard light footsteps on the linoleum, so faint he could barely tell.

 

He looked up to see Daryl standing over him.

 

“Ah, my hero,” Paul slurred, and Daryl just rolled his eyes.

 

“Y’tryin’ ta’ get yerself killed a second time?” he asked, lowering into a crouch. The hall was quiet and Paul’s roommates slumbered undisturbed—and here was Daryl, once again with no witnesses to his entrance.

 

Okay, so either the man just coincidently ended up in the same places Paul was, because the world was that small, or he had the magic ability to be anywhere he was needed. Or, Paul’d hit the floor harder than he thought.

 

“Yeah, that’s me, the death-seeker,” Paul sighed, looking at the linoleum. He reached out with his unmarred arm automatically, expecting Daryl to take it. He did, and helped Paul rise to his feet, where he stood shakily for a moment before the blood returned to its proper proportions in his limbs. “Slow day? No one else to rescue?” he asked, and Daryl shrugged.

 

“Nah,” Daryl answered, watching carefully as Paul walked towards the small bathroom, leaning heavily on the doorframe when he reached it.

 

“So, you just like keeping an eye on me?” Paul teased, excited to see the reaction that would turn on the stoic angel’s face. But when he turned, Daryl was gone as if he’d never arrived. The window remained closed and Paul might’ve poked his head into the hall to see if he’d left that way—were his bladder not insisting on his full attention.

 

~*~

 

Daryl was born to the lowest order of angels there was: seraphs. No angels made choices of their own, only following His will to the letter, no matter how gruesome or dangerous—but low-class angels had even less freedom. They bowed to those higher and lived only to serve in the most loathsome of positions, fighting with demons to cleanse holy sites or providing light for other, higher angels.

 

Daryl’d never been good at following orders, to the point that he eventually just stopped listening, becoming an outcast, wandering between the planes of earth and heaven. There were angels who brought down wrath and angels who protected those in need, and although Daryl preferred to be the latter, he was born the former. He wanted to protect rather than harm, and had an unfortunate interest in humans that probably was his weakness.

 

His brother had warned him, since he was very small, not to associate with the people down on earth, and Daryl understood the warning in the marks he saw on his brother’s body, saw how his wings were shredded and his skin marred beyond even the help of celestial healing.

 

“We ain’t nothin’ but freaks to them,” he had said, “monsters. Beasts. Father have mercy, because they ain’t got none.”

 

His brother had returned from earth distant, his jaw firm and his skin thick, refusing to acquiesce to the conquests of higher-order angels any longer, instead travelling low to fight with demons in the deep, or leaving for long periods of time to fly the skies solitarily, leaving Daryl alone.

 

Of course, no warning in the world could keep him from travelling to earth eventually, and down there, Daryl found nothing but abuse and mistrust. Humans badgered him for his lineage, his origin, and when he finally revealed it, called him a liar, a heretic, a freak. When he tried to prove it by unveiling his wings, they’d pulled at them, torn out the feathers, burned them, bent the bones and tried to break them.

 

Daryl had come to that place on Earth because he saw it was where healing was needed most—but he learned that those who needed salvation most were the weariest of accepting it.

 

Still, he didn’t let it stop him from trying to protect those in need. Fevers among little babies were easy to cure for higher-order angels, _real_ guardian angels, but at least he could stand over an anxious mom and blow reassurances into her ear. He could pull children with sprained limbs from ditches and ravines, quick to retreat when parents arrived out of fear he would be thought a criminal. He could help people trapped by house fires, immobilized by pain, or lost in the wilds. His healing abilities were minor, extending only to the ability to calm human minds, but it was alright. It was better than being a grunt, serving under the two-faced archangels and their heartless higher order.

 

Sometimes, when he travelled the roads and backwoods for peace and quiet, enjoying the emptiness of Earth’s wilderness, he came across people who fascinated him more than others: a sheriff who put his life on the line for his partner’s, even after said partner had crossed him in more ways than one. A delivery boy who rushed into the middle of the street to save a man struck by a car, and a farmer’s daughter who sang to children in the hospital. A mother who, despite her fear, rescued her daughter from her father’s abuse, taking the two of them to safety and freedom. A son who gladly donated his blood to aid his mother, who was dying in childbirth. Daryl kept himself hidden from those people; they didn’t need his help, and would probably scorn his presence if he just wandered in from the brush, covered in dust and with wings ratty and matted. But he kept a careful eye on them, just in case.

 

The man in the car wreck, on the other hand, didn’t do much of anything worth admiration, just crashed and then miraculously escaped—with the aid of Daryl pulling him to safety, of course. What he did do was look at Daryl like he was completely ordinary. Didn’t question him or doubt him, just looked at him with bright (albeit bruised) eyes like he trusted him completely. It wasn’t a reaction Daryl expected: he more often faced disbelief, distrust, or on very rare occasions, reverence and an attempt to cash in on his existence. So, despite his better judgement, he decided to stay close to the man, to keep a watch over him.

 

~*~

 

When Paul was granted leave from the hospital, he almost didn’t want to go to have to face reality that was going to greet him when he exited through those doors. He didn’t look forward to talking on the phone for hours trying to put through an insurance claim, or answering the same questions over and over about the state of his face. Maybe he could tell a different story to every patron at the bar about the origin of his wounds; it would be fun to see the looks on their faces when he told them how he fought off a bear with his bare arms, and nicked his chin bungie jumping.

 

At the end of the first day home, all Paul could think about was getting out. He took a cab to a bar as far from his own workplace as he could think of and settled into a booth for dinner, cheerily regaling the wait-staff of his ordeal.

 

At the bar, he spotted a familiar silhouette, seated on a stool, who absolutely refused to turn his attention on him. It had to be Daryl, but his attention was stonewall, his posture tight like he expected to be thrown out at any minute if someone recognized him. Paul just stared at Daryl as the man drank his beer and pretended not to see his not-so-secret admirer. An angel who went to bars, huh? It sounded more like the premise for a hacky TV drama than a real life occurrence.

 

Paul decided to walk home, just to see if a certain someone would follow him, straying closer and closer to the shoulder of the road in what was the second dumbest thing he’d ever done to get a guy’s attention. Soon, he felt a quiet presence behind him, and heard the sound of bare feet sneaking along the asphalt and fabric shuffling gently.

 

“Nice night, huh?” Paul said softly.

 

Daryl didn’t respond, and when Paul looked back over his shoulder, he saw a frown on Daryl’s face.

 

“Y’wanna get off the road?” the angel rumbled, voice low. Paul shrugged and stopped, turning around to face him.

 

“Isn’t that _your_ job?” he teased, rocking on his heels. A car whizzed by, the driver barely noticing them until he was long passed, when he honked his horn in exasperation.

 

“You always this stupid?” Daryl snapped back, and Paul tilted his head.

 

“I’m just sayin’,” he teased, “seems to me an angel would be able to fly me back home in no ti—”

 

Daryl suddenly charged forward, throwing his arms into Paul’s chest as if to tackle him. Paul yelped as he felt hands beneath his armpits, his feet leave the earth, then in the next second, the linoleum of his kitchen beneath him. He was back in his condo, taking in the darkened walls of the unlit room.

 

His breath hitched as he looked at Daryl, who was standing in the middle of the room, shoulders squared and looking pissed.

 

“There, s’that better?” he spat, and Paul nodded, shocked features softening into a smile.

 

“Much,” he assured, letting out a puff of breath he was holding. It wasn’t the strangest way he’d gotten a man back to his place, but it was definitely the most exciting.

 

Paul offered Daryl another beer from the fridge, chuckling inwardly at the way he seemed to debate it for only a second before accepting, popping the cap off with his rough fingers. Paul kept the lights off, only flicking on the lamp in the living room, enjoying the dark, and the way it made Daryl’s pupils wider and his skin glow silver.

 

“So…” Paul asked, leaning against the counter across from Daryl, whose posture had begun to loosen just a little, “how’d you end up in Virginia?”

 

Daryl rolled his shoulders, taking a deep swig before answering. He put his hand behind him to lean back into it, his thick arm flexing to take his weight before his hip hit the counter.

 

“Came down to Georgia, worked my way up here,” he answered with a shrug.

 

“From…?” Paul trailed.

 

“Heaven,” Daryl answered, jaw slack like it was the dumbest question in the world.

 

Right. _Heaven_.

 

Paul fiddled with the label on his own beer, looking up at Daryl through his brow. The angel’s gaze turned from his as soon as he saw Paul’s eyes. “Why’d you leave Georgia?”

 

Daryl didn’t answer for a long time, and Paul wondered if he wasn’t going to answer at all. He looked off, out the kitchen window.

 

“People there were assholes,” he muttered, “didn’t like me, tried to fuck with me…”

 

 _And succeeded_ , Daryl’s deflated posture read.

 

“They ripped up my wings n’shit,” Daryl mumbled, and Paul’s eyes widened.

 

“So you _do_ have them?” Paul asked, taking a cautious step forward. Daryl nodded curtly, biting his lower lip. Easily anticipating Paul’s next question, he put his bottle down on the counter and started to step into the middle of the room.

 

“You don’t have to,” Paul whispered, expecting there was something private about the thing the angel hadn’t revealed until now. Daryl just shrugged.

 

“S’nothin’ big,” he answered, and pulled off his vest. Feathers appeared behind his shoulders, long and broad and greyish-white, growing and opening out more and more. They grew into wings that spread out from behind his back, parting and rising nearly to the ceiling. The room wasn’t nearly wide enough to fit his 30-foot wingspan, so they remained folded, foot-long flight feathers brushing the floor.

 

Paul saw what Daryl had meant. His wings, ashen grey and brown in pattern like a goshawks’, were tattered and damaged, with feathers crooked or missing altogether, singed in places and ratty all over. It was a wonder they could still fly—although Paul suspected they had a different purpose than that, to angels, given how easily Daryl flitted between places. These wings were a representation of the state of their owner, and they were tattered and broken, crushed and beaten, but somehow still sturdy and filled with light.

 

Daryl stood stiffly, watching as Paul circled and observed him, jerking his shoulder when Jesus tried to step behind him and look at his back. Paul put a hand over his mouth, unable to help the tear that came to his eye.

 

“Hey man, what the hell?” Daryl snapped, voice trembling, wings pulling in around him, folding in tight.

 

Paul shook his head. “No, it’s just…” He struggled for the words. It was just overwhelming, seeing this much. Though Paul didn’t feel fear or pity. Just the same amazement he’d felt when he looked up at the man sitting on the road barrier, haloed in sun. “Sorry. I just, I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

 

Daryl seemed satisfied with the answer, his discomfort lessening, tight muscles uncoiling just barely. He disappeared his wings anyway, the greyish feathers retreating into his shoulders and leaving nothing but empty space in their wake. He slipped his shirt back on, buttoning it deftly.

 

Silence filled in between them. It was hard to just get back into small talk after experiencing something like that, and even Paul struggled for something to say. He looked at the moon out the kitchen window while Daryl picked at his nails.

 

It just seemed too surreal, and yet more completely, utterly honest than anything Paul had experienced in a long time. Putting on false smiles for patrons at work, short-lived relationships cut off with curt expressions of forced regret—everything in his life was just a reflection of something real and actual. Nothing compared to hitting the steering wheel at 60 miles an hour, or seeing an angel spread his wings in his kitchen.

 

“Why me?” Paul asked.

 

Daryl raised an eyebrow at him. “What?”

 

Paul took a step forward. That was really the question, wasn’t it? Reality wasn’t structured, accidents were random. So why him?

 

“Why me?” Paul asked again. “You said you saw me and just came down. You can be anywhere in an instant. So why did you come to help me?”

 

“Just a coincidence, man,” Daryl insisted, a flush rising in his cheeks. He shifted from foot to foot, clearly unhappy being questioned, yet not leaving like he rightly could.

 

“Then, in the hospital? Was _that_ a coincidence?” Paul asked, shifting forward a few steps. Daryl would no longer meet his gaze. It felt a little encouraging, being able to fluster the angel, but more than his embarrassment, Paul wanted his honesty.

 

“Does it fuckin’ matter?” Daryl barked suddenly, stepping forward to meet Paul. Anger came quickly over him, filling out his broad shoulders and barrel chest. “Should I a’left you there, instead, huh?! Would that a’been better?”

 

Paul flinched a little, but held his ground.

 

Daryl’s glare fell somewhere on his chest as Paul reached out to him.

 

“It’s just…” he licked his lips, “you just showed up, and I just have to wait for you to come and find me again. I don’t know where you are; you just appear and then’re gone. I can’t go _to_ you.” His fingers hovered over Daryl’s arm, tips just barely nudging the sun-scorched flesh.

 

“I wish I could.”

 

Daryl froze, like a computer program gone awry, and in the next instant, Paul was alone in his kitchen.

 

Paul sighed, leaning back against the counter. He rolled his head back against his shoulders, rubbed his arms, before turning in for the night.

 

~*~

 

The week that began in disaster ended in disaster as well. Whether it was Gregory pushing him to do the busiest shift of the week, the old despot knowing full well he was still recovering, or Paul pushing _himself_ to prove the accident hadn’t dulled his reflexes, his shift was cut short when he landed shin-first in a broken shot-glass after slipping on the tacky pub floor.

 

He sat out on the curb, and as he waited for the ambulance, Daryl appeared out of the dark of the parking lot.

 

“Hello again,” Paul intoned, raising an eyebrow. Things had cooled inside him since last night’s encounter. It was all a bit overwhelming, last night. Disappointing, too, although Paul had no clue exactly what he was hoping for.

 

“I can take you t’the hospital,” Daryl offered, shifting his shoulders, staring at his shoes. It looked like he had cooled down as well.

 

“No,” Paul shook his head as he adjusted the wad of bloody paper towel against his shin, “I think I’m okay.”

 

The night was dry, yet somehow heavy, like cigarette smoke. Daryl hovered quietly a few feet from Paul, shifting from foot to foot. Somehow, the gravity of his presence had dissipated since their first meeting—probably because this time, Paul wasn’t facing death, he was just mildly inconvenienced by a scrape on the knee.

 

The ambulance came and Paul winced as he was helped into a stretcher and laid down. His insurance was taking hit after hit this week, as was his ego. The paramedics let Daryl ride in the back, and one of them even called him “sweetie” as she asked him to sit down on the bench, much to Daryl’s embarrassment and Paul’s amusement.

 

It took twelve more stitches and a handful of butterfly tapes to hold his shin together, but it could’ve been worse. It was past one by the time he was done and so Paul sat out on the bench outside, waiting for a cab, Daryl doing good by his role by hovering just over his shoulder the whole time.

 

“Freezing’s wearing off,” Paul groaned as he shifted his knee, the topical anesthetic wearing off but quickly, feeling returning to his pained skin. “Can’t you do something about this?” He teased, looking up at his stoic shadow, who ducked his head under his bangs in reply.

 

“Would be easy,” Daryl mumbled, “for a real guardian angel.”

 

Paul blinked. “Which makes you…?”

 

Daryl’s gaze dropped, shoulders sinking in a way that looked like a beaten horse and made Paul’s heart twist.

 

“Nothin’. Nobody,” Daryl answered. “Ain’t a real guardian angel. Just a freak.”

 

Paul frowned, tilting his head. From the angle he was at, the street light shone behind Daryl’s shoulder, haloing him in white. His posture was defeated, his eyes at the pavement. His hand hung loosely at his side.

 

“Okay,” Paul said softly, “I think you can take me home.”

 

He stood to face Daryl, reaching out to touch his hands. Daryl’s flinch was obvious, but he let Paul take his wrists, a look of horror rising in his eyes when Paul placed moved his hands to his waist. He then put his arms around Daryl’s shoulders, so their embrace was complete, the circle made by their arms whole. Daryl’s hands were hot on the back of his hips, and Paul closed his eyes. There was a _whoosh_ , followed by that feeling of weightlessness, and Paul opened his eyes to see the inside of his dark condo again.

 

Slowly, Paul let himself separate from Daryl, feeling hands quickly retreat from his waist.

 

“What you do, that’s what makes you who you are,” Paul said softly, pushing hair behind his ear. “Doesn’t matter where you came from or who you were born as. It’s all up to you.”

 

“…And that’s my dumb-ass motivational speech,” Paul chuckled, turning towards the kitchenette. The fridge was empty save for condiments, he knew already, and the counters bare. “Wanna have some dinner? Or, do you eat?”

 

Daryl stood stock-still in the middle of the kitchen, his bare feet flat on the faded linoleum. His face was hidden beneath his bangs.

 

“Didn’t y’hear what I said?”

 

Paul gave up on looking through his fridge and moved on to the kitchen drawer that held take-out menus. “I did.”

 

“I ain’t playin’ around, Paul,” Daryl’s warning voice echoed coarsely in the kitchen, and Paul ignored it, swiveling from cabinet to countertop like water. Daryl’s grip stilled him anyway, a hand darting out to snatch him by the collar and haul him in close. Paul slapped a hand over Daryl’s, gripping the thumb and pulling backwards automatically, ready to defend himself, but when he caught the hitch in Daryl’s breathing, he realized the angel’s purpose was not to threaten.

 

Daryl brought their foreheads together, pressing hard, leaning heavily. A puff of exasperated breath washed over his chin and Paul sighed, eyes trained on Daryl’s chest.

 

“Why ain’t you thrown me out on my ass yet?” Daryl grumbled, voice cracking.

 

Paul struggled to reply past the lump in his throat. “How could I? I need my guardian angel.”

 

They hovered close, unblinking, tense as pulled elastic, until finally, things began to loosen. Paul felt something uncoil in Daryl, his shoulders sliding and hand releasing the front of Paul’s shirt.

 

“You gonna stick around?” Paul asked, pushing gently against Daryl’s nose with his own. The angel responded with a small nod.

 

“Guess so,” Daryl shrugged, “someone’s gotta look after your dumb ass.”

 

“I knew you liked keeping an eye on my ass,” Paul gave a meek smile, retreating, “honestly, I—”

 

As he stepped, his leg suffered a slice of pain and his knee stiffened, sending him tripping backwards. He reached frantically for Daryl’s shoulders as he fell but Daryl caught him, sliding an arm around his shoulders and another his waist, catching him hovering in some sort of awkward tango, Paul pulling at his vest and Daryl squeezing him back just as tight.

 

“You are a walking disaster!” Daryl huffed, half-angry and half-exasperated.

 

“I swear, I am not normally anything this clumsy,” Paul defended, patting Daryl’s shoulders as the angel carefully uprighted him. Daryl let out a bit of a chuckle, seemingly horrified at the whole circumstance, and Paul couldn’t help but laugh, too. He laughed, feeling things uncoil and air warm. Daryl started laughing, too, just a barely-there sound, his lips quirked, teeth peeking through. Not the worst sight, Paul mused, eyes glancing over Daryl’s cheeks. It wasn’t as if he could embarrass himself any further, so standing up on his toes to give Daryl a brief kiss seemed easy, after what he’d been through this week.

 

Daryl froze, and for a moment, Paul thought he was going to disappear again in that whoosh of air and feathers, but he didn’t, just blushing and rubbing his chin in a way that made Paul want to kiss him again. He hoped he’d have many chances in the future—only, hopefully he wouldn’t have to get injured, first, to have them.

 

Paul slid his fingers down Daryl’s arm, ending in his palm and snaking a finger through his, giving a tiny squeeze he felt Daryl meekly return.

 

Maybe it wasn’t the worst week, after all.

 

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: car accident


	11. Things Unseen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jesus is a reporter chasing down a story, and Daryl is the one man he needs to talk to.

Jesus sighed in relief as he finally pulled off the narrow, weathered Georgia highway into the parking lot of the Backroads Inn. The potholes in the road had been so deep, and their number so concentrated, that he’d had to drive fifteen miles under the speed limit just to keep from smashing his head against the roof. His hands ached from an hour of gripping hard on the steering wheel, as his small car jolted along, to avoid being bounced off the road into the surrounding woods.  


The only motel in town didn’t appear to be in much better shape than the highway. Sun-bleached walls had faded to an almost non-existent color except for some suspect greenish-brown splotches that may have been mold. Rain-streaked remnants of black soot beneath the eaves suggested that this place had been in flames at least once in the last ten years or so.  


A burly, mustached woman named Maude checked him in, side-eyeing him suspiciously. These small Georgia hill towns were generally rough places, full of color and not a small amount of violence ranging from bar fights to crimes of passion, but it was still considered peaceful as long as the violence was committed by someone who lived there. They didn’t take to strangers.  


_One night._ , he reminded himself as he stepped into a dingy, sparse room. Pink floral wallpaper that had to be at least twice as old as he was hung loose from the corners, and he didn’t even want to imagine what all those stains on it represented. The bed was possibly as old as the wallpaper, and the entire room smelled of cigarettes, beer, and residual whiffs of what might be vomit.  


Just the thought of sleeping in a worn, lumpy bed gave him a headache. His bones felt like they were still rattling from the drive, and a familiar ache had settled into his arms and legs.  


Maude had begrudgingly given him directions to a 24-hour diner that would serve him an early lunch. He checked his backpack for the necessities: pen, paper, voice recorder, some cash, some articles, and a few small bottles of good whiskey to use as bribes in case anyone interesting needed some incentive to talk.  


He cursed _The Cryptoid Monthly_ under his breath as he shut the motel room door behind him and crossed the parking lot toward his car. He knew he shouldn’t, really. They gave a wannabe reporter a chance when he had no degree, no experience, two sets of clothes and a record for petty theft and possession of marijuana. The fact that his accommodations were less than stellar was a small price to pay for a good job.  


He didn’t care that he’d never be considered a serious journalist. He got to see places that few others saw, just like this town, and meet people that most reporters would avoid coming in contact with.  


While the subjects of his stories might be laughed at by those more successful in his field, the tabloid had a recent uptake in readership and he was becoming proud of his writing and his investigative abilities. It was a lonely job but not thankless, and better than stealing, landing in jail, or living on the streets.  


It was funny that neither a desire to write or succeed was the reason he’d applied for the job in the first place.  


He pulled up in front of a small one-story building that was more windows than walls, red tables and chairs visible to the street. JB’s Diner sat at the corner of Main Street and Elm, as typical as anything in any small town in America.  


Jesus always started his searches at the local diner. They served as hubs of town gossip and conjecture. Even better, oddities, stories of the macabre and supernatural, anything that fell outside the lines of normal conversation would certainly be talked about here. Between this place and the bar down the street, he’d hopefully be able to find what he needed quickly.  


The diner was owned by a man named, unsurprisingly, Jim Bob. He was a gruff fellow with less facial hair than Maude, and slightly more receptive to a stranger’s presence in the town. They chatted a bit as Jesus wolfed down the best hamburger he’d ever had and sipped on an enormous glass of sweet tea.  


Jesus had worn his hair down, suspecting that this place might not take too kindly to man-buns, and introduced himself as Paul. He always got “the look” if he accidentally called himself Jesus; although, when he introduced himself as Paul, almost every single person said something to the effect of “Paul, huh? You look like Jesus!”  


Jim Bob had been no different. But he _was_ different in that he was familiar with the Cryptoid Monthly, and more than willing to throw out his own theories about alien conspiracies, mothmen, and other strange and bizarre things that the Cryptoid, and Jesus, wrote about.  


He was in the middle of a tirade about how Neil DeGrasse Tyson was a social media plant by the government to keep people from believing that the reptilians were taking over the world, when he stopped suddenly, snapped his fingers, and pointed at Jesus.  


“You’re here about the chupacabra, right?”  


Jesus smiled, because this was too damned easy. It was seldom that the first line he cast got a bite. “You got me. That’s why I’m here.”, he said with a shrug.  


“I knew it! Man, I knew that thing was real. Most people don’t believe in it, but the man who saw it, he’s a good man. He don’t look for attention, ain’t tryin’ to make any money.” Jim Bob’s eyes grazed the empty booths and bar in the diner before he leaned in to whisper to Jesus, “I believe Dixon. He knows these woods and everythin’ in ‘em better than almost anyone around here. His brother didn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground, but Daryl, if he said he saw something, he did.”  


“Dixon?”, Jesus asked, pulling a pen from his pocket and writing on his napkin. “Daryl Dixon? Can you give me his address?”  


“I can give you directions, you’ll never find it with just the address.”  


Paul wrote down everything Jim Bob gave him, and turned when he reached the door to see the other man smirking.  


“What?”, asked Paul, a curious smile on his face.  


“Good luck finding it. And better luck getting Dixon to talk. No one would ever even know he saw that thing if his brother Merle hadn’t gotten drunk last year and told the whole bar.”, he said, shaking his head. “Daryl’s…private. So good luck.”  


He threw Jesus two thumbs up as if he was truly wishing him well, and Jesus shook his head, laughing under his breath on the way to his car. It had taken over a year for word of the Chupacabra sighting to reach his desk, and in less than an hour he had a name and address. He could only hope the rest of his trip went so well.  


Forty-five minutes, two backtracks and a ridiculous number of left turns later, Jesus pulled up in front of what he hoped to God was Daryl Dixon’s house. A blanket of dark clouds now loomed overhead, threatening rain, but at least the air had cooled beneath them.  


The house was old, it’s wood worn but patched in places, but it had a brand new metal roof. New railings had been added to the porch, clean wood starkly contrasting the older warped planks. It was cleaner than he expected for being so far out here in the middle of nowhere, the porch swept, the window panes clear. A thick canopy of trees surrounded the house. But there were no vehicles that Jesus could see, and it was so quiet that he might’ve thought he’d wasted this trip. His intuition told him otherwise.  


Summer hung on in Georgia, but Jesus stepped over a thick blanket of last year’s leaves as he walked to the porch. “Hello?”, he called, but the woods around him remained quiet.  


He almost made it to the house before a rustle at his feet stopped him in his tracks. He looked down just as the leaves beneath him parted to reveal the body of a snake that slithered within two feet of his boots.  


His scream was involuntary, and his three-foot leap onto the porch purely instinctual. He was suddenly hoping no one _was_ home. So of course, the front door wrenched open.  


“What the hell?!”, a voice thundered.  


Jesus barely glanced at the man who was now stepping onto the porch, because he sure as hell wasn’t taking his eyes off that snake.  


“There’s a rattlesnake!”. His attempt to be less than overdramatic was thwarted by the high pitch of his voice and his shaky hand as he pointed to the ground in front of the porch.  


Boots thumped across the weathered planks until the man whom he assumed to be Daryl Dixon leaned over the railing to peer at the pile of leaves.  


“’S just a northern brown snake, man.”, he drawled, his tone lighter but unamused. “It ain’t gonna hurt nobody.”  


“Oh.” Jesus took a deep breath, his face red with embarrassment. “I guess I didn’t get a real good look.” He was still trying to pull his pride back into place as the man turned to face him.  


And _well fuck_ , if those weren’t the most beautiful thunderstorm blue eyes he’d ever seen. His mouth may have gaped open a bit as his eyes traveled across sharp cheekbones to a beauty mark just above the other man’s mouth, to his very broad shoulders and biceps that would have done justice to one of Michaelangelo’s sculptures, to a thick chest and slender waist.  


He stopped himself before he went any further, because he’d already been staring too long and he knew it. Just when he thought he’d used up all his humiliation cards on the scream and the jump to the porch.  


When he looked back into the other’s face, a strange feeling of want, not lust but _want_ , pooled in his gut. He could’ve sworn the man was blushing, but the look on his face convinced Jesus that it was more likely to be fury than flirtation that reddened his skin.  


“What the fuck are you doin’ here?”, asked the man, his eyes narrow, his posture tense.  


“I’m…I’m sorry. Jim Bob…from the diner? He sent me.”, stuttered Jesus. Shit, he was better than this. He’d interviewed well over a hundred people by now with complete confidence, and this particular interview was more important to him than most. But suddenly his tongue felt like The Grinch’s heart…three times too big. “You’re…you’re Daryl Dixon?”  


The man shifted on his feet, relaxing his posture just a bit. He nodded. “I’m Daryl. Is Jim Bob okay? Is somethin’ wrong?”  


“No, no, he’s fine.” Jesus took one more deep breath and straightened. “I’m Paul Rovia. I’m a reporter with the Cryptoid Monthly, in Atlanta? Jim Bob just told me how to find you.”  


Suspicion returned to Daryl’s face, and he broke eye contact with Paul, leaning his head forward so that his long bangs fell into his eyes. “Why the hell were you looking for me?”  


“Well…”, Jesus knew this was that moment when he had to just dive in and hope for the best. He’d interviewed less than willing people, including a few that were downright unfriendly. He had a knack for getting people to talk, but this first introduction was always a telling moment. “I’m here to talk to you about the chupacabra you saw.” He stepped forward, his hand out.  


The other man quietly muttered something that sounded like _Goddamit Jim Bob_ as he rocked back on his feet, ignoring the offered handshake. He looked at Jesus then, thin lips pursing, embers of anger threatening to erupt into a fire behind his eyes. Without a word, he crossed the porch and entered the house, slamming the door behind him.  


_So, that went well._ Jesus drew a hand over the top of his head, pulling his hair off his face. God, he wished he could pull it up. The humidity was increasing by the second and even though the temperature had lessened, sweat ran down his neck and back.  


And by God, he wasn’t going to make this trip for nothing, and he wasn’t going to waste time he didn’t have. _One night_.  


He knocked on the front door. “Mr. Dixon? Umm…Daryl?” He heard the click of the bolt sliding closed and laughed in spite of himself. This was going to be a challenge. “Daryl, can I just talk to you for a minute? I don’t even have to use your name in the story, but I think our readers will be interested in what you have to say.”  


There was no sound from the other side of the door, but a rumble of thunder gave Jesus a sense of urgency. “Daryl, please…I promise I’m not here to make fun of you. I believe you saw what you saw. That’s what the Cryptoid is all about…telling stories like yours.”  


Silence. Until, behind him, a deluge of rain unleashed itself. He turned just as the wind hit, bowing giant tree branches menacingly above his car. In seconds, the ground before him was mud and the wind was pushing the pelting rain onto the porch so that Jesus had to almost lean his back against the door to stay dry.  


He didn’t want to stay any longer than he had to, and he had a sudden sense of uneasiness at the thought of driving down muddy roads in the storm. He knocked on the door once more. “Daryl, c’mon, it’s pouring out here. Can I at least come in for a minute until it passes?”  


When no answer came, Jesus huffed in frustration. Of anyone he interviewed, these kind of people were the worst, the private ones, the ones that were embarrassed about their stories. But he had yet to meet one that would leave him out in a storm. Now he was pissed, and the rain was coming down harder every second.  


“Fine, I’ll just stay on the fucking porch then!”, he shouted at the door this time. “Don’t mind me! If I drown out here it’ll be your fault!”  


A bolt of lightning hit then, so terrifyingly close to the house that Jesus felt the porch shudder with the impact. The flash might’ve momentarily blinded him if he wasn’t facing the door.  


And at that, the bolt slid, the knob turned and the door opened a few inches.  


This was one of those moments that he might’ve tentatively pushed on the door, making sure Daryl wasn’t waiting on the other side with a shotgun before entering, but that lightning had him so unnerved that he nearly fell into the house, closing the door behind him and bolting it as if two inches of metal might keep the storm at bay.  


When he turned away from the door, Daryl wasn’t in sight. But what _was_ in sight had him gaping again.  


The house was small, that was obvious from the outside. What he couldn’t have imagined was the freshly painted beige walls and shining white trim, the rich walnut plank floor that looked as if it had been masterfully planed by hand, the nice if not new furniture, and the general cleanliness of it all.  


A simple iron chandelier was suspended from the ceiling in the center of the room. Framed posters of futuristic motorcycles and classic blues bands hung neatly on the walls, and a live version of Mike Zito’s _Pearl River_ emanated softly from a surround-sound speaker system. The interplay between rustic and modern gave the place an unexpectedly warm, inviting feeling.  


More intriguing than that was the well-used crossbow that stood in the corner. The green and white fletch of the bolts stood out, but not as much as the smell of dried blood that Jesus could sense coming off of the bow. The scent was mingled…deer, squirrel, rabbit. Nothing unexpected for a man who lives in the woods and hunts on his own land.  


Daryl stepped in from the kitchen as Jesus was still taking everything in. “I ain’t talkin’ to you, so don’t ask questions.”  


“This place is…surprising.” Paul’s voice was incredulous but he winced at his own choice of words. “Did you do all this yourself?”  


“What did I _just say_?!”, Daryl snapped.  


“Sorry, sorry…I thought you meant don’t ask questions about the chupacabra.” He smiled weakly. “Thanks for letting me in, by the way. And I’ll make you a deal, any talk about the house is off the record.”  


Scoffing, Daryl shook his head. “Ain’t talkin’ about shit with you.”  


“Fine.”, Jesus relented. He shrugged and stepped further into the room. Daryl took a small step back, a subconscious retreat as he’d done on the porch, and Jesus wondered if the man was this nervous around everyone, or just strangers, or just him.  


“I’m really not here just to bother you. It’s just my job, you know. It’s how I make my living. I mean, I like writing, I love it actually, and this is the job I could get.”  


After a beat or two, Daryl said, “I get it, man. You’re just barkin’ up the wrong tree here.”  


“Paul.”, said Jesus, and Daryl looked at him curiously. “You keep calling me ‘man’. My name is Paul.”  


Daryl smirked. “Yeah, you said that.” He shuffled his feet, and Jesus wondered again why the man seemed unnerved. “Okay Paul, you’re here until it stops raining, then you’re gone.”, he said, then retreated into the kitchen.  


Partially visible from the living room, the kitchen also had a fresh coat of paint, the same walnut floor that seemed through run through the entire house, and gleaming butcher block counters. The appliances were not new but they were clean, and in the corner by a door leading to the side porch sat two bowls, one filled with fresh water, the other with kibble.  


“You have a dog?”, Jesus queried.  


Daryl turned from rinsing dishes at the sink and rolled his eyes when he realized that Jesus had followed him into the kitchen. “Yeah, what about it?”  


“I love dogs.”, Jesus countered. “I’ve always wanted one but when I was little…well, I couldn’t. And now, I travel too much. What kind of dog is it?”

“He’s a mutt.” 

Hoping his next question wouldn’t get him cast out into the storm, he ventured, “Is he a chupacabra?” He kept a cheeky grin on his face but nearly lost his countenance when Daryl’s head snapped up defensively. 

“What the fuck, man? You makin’ fun of me? In my own house?”

“No no!”, insisted Jesus, raising his hands in defense. “I was just trying to break the ice. It was just stupid joke. I’m sorry.”

Daryl glared but his shoulders settled, and Jesus let out a small sigh of relief. Okay, he should’ve know that humor was off the table as a good approach to get the other man to talk. He pulled up a chair at the table, plopped his backpack on the floor, and tried again.

“Look, Daryl. I hate to say it, but I think I’m going to be here awhile.” Jesus swallowed, watching Daryl closely as he continued. “So let’s make a deal. We can talk, you know, like people do, and if there actually is a story here for me to write, I won’t even turn it in to my editor until you’ve given it the okay.”

“I don’t know you. Ain’t got no reason to think you’re tellin’ the truth.” The other man maintained a stoic face even as he went to the fridge and pulled out two bottles. “But you ain’t lyin’ about bein’ here for awhile. Those roads are probably already washed out.” He set a beer on the table in front of Jesus and popped the cap on his own, leaning against the counter and taking a long draw.

“How about this?”, Jesus leaned down to open his backpack and pulled out the laminated articles he’d brought. They’d only come in handy once or twice, but he never knew when he might need them so he kept them close at hand. “These are a few articles I’ve written. Why don’t you read them, and you’ll get an idea of what I do.”

Daryl glared at the papers in his hand for a moment, then directly at Jesus as if summing him up, before taking the papers and sitting opposite him at the table. They both sat quietly, occasionally sipping on their beers as Daryl read through the article on an alien abduction in Senoia, a Bigfoot sighting in Blueridge, and an unknown Shadowman that roamed a neighborhood on the outskirts of Atlanta for two weeks the prior year. His eyebrows at times lifted in surprise, sometimes lowered in suspicion, and when a pink tinge reddened his cheeks, Jesus suspected that Daryl knew how closely he was being scrutinized as he read. Jesus couldn’t help it. This man was gorgeous, and despite his tough exterior Jesus could sense something more there. Kindness. Steadiness. Grief. That sense of want rose again in his chest, a strange, steady hum of desire.

When Daryl finished, he tossed the papers back toward Jesus. “Okay, so they’re alright. You ain’t makin’ fun of people, I see that. But truth is, I never saw no damn chupacabra or anything of the sort. ‘S just a rumor my brother started at a bar one night.”

“Fair enough”, said Jesus, watching closely at how Daryl’s shoulders shrunk forward, although he kept his gaze steady. He was lying, and Jesus couldn’t actually see it but he could feel it.

“How about we just talk then. No article.” He glanced at the kitchen window, where sheets of water hid anything beyond and the dark sky belied the time of day. “I mean, you’re kind of stuck with me, and I’m not exactly in a position to ask for favors.”

And okay, that might’ve been a small tip of the mouth from other man, the spark of a smile, and then he actually huffed in a way that might’ve been amusement or perhaps just resignation. “Fine.”, he relented. “You talk.”

Jesus had no idea how he was going to keep any kind of conversation going with Daryl, especially not one that he could swing around to his advantage at the right time. There were things he needed to know, things about this man, and in order to do that he was going to _have_ to get him to talk about what he’d seen in the woods.

“So where’s your brother? Does he live here with you?”

“Merle died eight months ago.”, Daryl replied quietly, watching his hands instead of his guest.

“I’m sorry.”, said Jesus. He had no idea what to say next, and was saved by a sudden loud scratching at the back door, followed by a rather frantic bark.

Daryl jumped up from the table and grabbed a towel off a wall hook that hung in the corner, over the dog bowls. He opened the back door quickly and stepped back, holding the towel out to shield himself from the frenzied onslaught of one very excited, very wet dog.

“Buck!”, he yelled, but Jesus could tell he was trying not to laugh.

“You’re right, he’s a mutt,” exclaimed Jesus, “He looks like a cross between a pitbull, a deer, and maybe a little cheetah.” He was referring to the dog’s thick head and wide jaws that clashed in appearance with a slender, agile body and long legs, and the light brown of his short fur mottled with random spots.

Daryl, still fighting to towel the dog dry, looked as if he was about to respond. But at the sound of Jesus’ voice, the dog ducked out from under the towel and between Daryl’s legs to practically land in Jesus’ lap.

“Buck!”, yelled Daryl again. “I don’t know what’s got into him. He’s usually shy of strangers.” He was looking at Jesus with a curious expression, as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

Scratching behind Buck’s ears as the wet dog propped two muddy paws on Jesus’ legs and wagged his tail furiously, Jesus replied, “I told you, I like dogs.” He smiled broadly at Daryl and didn’t miss the red blush that bloomed across the other man’s cheeks. _Well, that’s interesting._

Daryl stepped forward and grabbed Buck’s collar, pulling him from Jesus’ lap onto the floor. “Manners, ya dumbass dog.”, he said firmly but with unmistakable fondness. Buck just grinned at his owner, and Jesus knew instantly that his perception of Daryl had been correct. He was kind. 

In that moment, as Daryl tried to stare down the over-excited mutt who was obviously having none of it, Jesus remembered why he was here, the thing he had to do that had nothing to do with the article. How had he forgotten? When had he _ever_ forgotten?”. 

There must have been too many surprises today…between the snake, the rain, the feel of the house, the dog, and the fact that the man that he came here to hurt was, in fact, someone he felt unexpectedly connected to. And it wasn’t just Daryl’s looks, although Jesus was undeniably attracted. There was something more, something undefinably striking about this man’s heart. 

Jesus had a thing about hearts, a sort of gift. He could tell what someone’s heart was made of upon first meeting them. And Daryl’s was made of steel and kindness, strength that spoke of having survived awful things and come out a better man. And it was distinctly lacking the things that kept so many others’ hearts beating…greed, self-gratification, blind ambition. 

For the first time in a very, very long time, Jesus found himself wondering if he would be able to do his job, not the article, but his _real_ job. A feeling of dread began to twist down his spine. And it was complicated by the fact that at some point as he’d been lost in thought, Daryl had turned to stare at him. Their eyes locked, and the air between them became heavy and charged.

He was certain that what he was feeling, this magnetic pull, was easier for him to acknowledge because of what he _was_. So he felt a sense of surprise at the fact that Daryl seemed to feel it too. The other man shifted nervously on his feet, not speaking but also not looking away. Whatever this was, they were creating it together, and the shock of that realization propelled Jesus to his feet.

“I…uhhh…I need to use your restroom.”. And damn it, he was stammering again. Daryl simply pointed to the short hall that led off the living room and Jesus immediately headed for it, finding the room easily and closing himself inside. He leaned on the door, letting the wave of attachment subside for a moment. 

This could not be happening. This wasn’t even a real thing, right? Infatuation? No, it was more than that. Love at first sight? Not even possibly. And yet, Jesus suddenly understood that from the second he saw Daryl on that porch, he’d felt for the first time in his life as if he weren’t _alone_. And when he walked into Daryl’s house, he’d felt like he was home. He laid his head against the solid wood with a feeling of resignation.

He had a job to do, and if he didn’t, he would be risking lives. At the very least, he might lose his support, his security, his position on the council. He had certainly had doubts before, but to his knowledge, no Extractor in millennia had ever neglected to get the job done.

Steeling himself with an unwanted resolve, he went back to the kitchen. Daryl had resumed his seat at the table, his back toward Jesus, and Buck was chasing the last few pieces of kibble in his bowl with his tongue. As Jesus stepped into the room, both the other man and dog stopped and turned to face him.

“Want another beer?”, asked Daryl easily. It seemed as if he’d managed to relax in Jesus’ presence. 

“I’ll get it.” Jesus opened the fridge and pulled out two beers, but was stopped from taking his seat at the table by Buck, who’d left his food bowl and now dropped the last pieces of his kibble at Jesus’ feet. He circled once and laid down, thumping his tail loudly against the floor. Emitting a happy whine, his eyes were intent on Jesus’ face as if he’d just presented an alpha dog with a fresh kill and was waiting for praise.

Daryl leaned forward across the table, a stunned look on his face. “What the fuck? Is he giving you his food?!”

Jesus just shrugged. “I guess dogs like me too.” He smiled and leaned over to scoop the kibble from the floor. “Good boy.”, he cooed at the dog and gave his ear a scratch. Buck’s tail went wild, knocking into the metal table leg and setting the entire thing shaking.

Daryl’s expression was incredulous, enough to make Jesus understand that Buck didn’t usually take to strangers this way. What began as a stare morphed into something more, as Jesus felt the man’s eyes move up and down his frame, before his eyes turned quickly to focus at his fidgeting hands on the table. 

Jesus just smiled his most genuine smile as he stepped over Buck and sank into the chair. He handed a speechless Daryl one of the bottles, feeling a bit more in control of his emotions than he had earlier. The patter of rain against the window stopped as suddenly as it had begun. The roads would begin to dry. He was running out of time.

They moved to the living room couch a few minutes later, carrying their beers, with Buck trailing close to Jesus. Daryl took a moment to rifle through his DVD’s before finding “The Good, the Bad and the Ugly” and sliding it into the player. It gave Jesus time to settle in the middle of the couch, giving Daryl plenty of space to sit but allowing him good proximity to do what he needed to do.

A movie had been his suggestion. Two hours and the movie would be done, the roads would be dry enough, and Jesus would be on his way. There was no way he could distract Daryl enough to do the spell while they were talking, and even though he knew he could take Daryl in a fight he didn’t want to do that if he didn’t have to. No, this could be done quietly, if he could just get the other man to relax and focus his attention on the television.

Almost an hour into the movie Daryl was slumped in his seat, his head resting against the back of the couch, eyes half-closed. Jesus had inched a bit closer to the other man during the course of the film, so slowly and in such small degrees that someone else might not have noticed. Daryl did, of course, having given Jesus a couple of discreet glances, but he made no move to stop him. 

This interested Jesus more than he wanted it to, and as the space closed between them, doubt began to twinge in Jesus’ mind again. But he had no options, he had one job, and it was time. He leaned in slowly toward Daryl, raising his hand off his lap, ready to place it against Daryl’s temple. Once the touch occurred, Daryl wouldn’t be able to stop him. 

Buck opened a sleepy eye and gave two light thumps of his tail from where he lay at Jesus’ feet, but he made no move to stop Jesus from moving into Daryl’s space. _Good boy._

God, he didn’t want to do this. He wanted to run his hands through the long strands of dark hair that fell over the back of the couch, and to caress the fingers that rested against worn jeans. He wanted to press his face into Daryl’s neck and breathe his scent; it was the woods and water, smoke and _man_ , everything that Jesus loved and some of what he feared.

The Extraction spell had one purpose, and that was to make the other forget what they’d seen. Jesus had done it so many times he’d lost count. It was an unfortunate side effect of the spell that while it erased the specific memories that Jesus bade it to, it also erased others, indiscriminately. 

Men forgot their wives. Mothers forgot their children. Some people forgot where they worked, and there was that very ill-fated incident with the heart surgeon who completely forgot everything she had learned in medical school.

Jesus had no control over which memories stayed, and which went, save for two. The Extraction would erase the memory of a person ever having seen or met him. And it would completely expunge any memory of seeing the chupacabra, or whatever creature might have been spotted. It might also take Daryl’s memory of his brother, of Buck, of how to make a house a home. It could even make him forget that he’s kind to animals, or that he can shoot a crossbow, or that he likes the rain.

As he watched Daryl, he asked himself for the first time in his life if there were any way around this. He’d spent less than one day with this man. But no, he didn’t want to do this. He might need Daryl to forget what he’d seen one night in the woods, but he didn’t want Daryl to forget him. He rather liked the memory of today. It felt like it might be the start of something. And here he was, ending it.

Daryl turned his head just as Jesus’ hand hovered by his face. And Jesus, for all his resolve, couldn’t bear to lay his palm against the other man’s temple. Instead, he curled his fingers and gently pushed the long bangs off of Daryl’s face. Daryl responded with a suspicious glare that, as their gaze held, morphed into something darker and lust-filled. 

“I have to go.” Jesus was off the couch in an instant, running to the kitchen to retrieve his backpack and then striding back through the living room to the front door.

Daryl stayed on the couch but watched intently. It wasn’t until Jesus turned the knob on the front door that he spoke. “Hey, wait up.” 

Jesus froze for a second, torn between a strong urge to run and an undeniable desire to stay forever. But this man was _human_ , for Christ’s sake. None of this would work between them, even if Daryl was actually feeling the same things Jesus was.

Daryl moved to the door, standing close behind Jesus, and suddenly a large hand was holding a phone in front of Jesus’ face. “Put your number in, and I’ll text you mine.” 

Turning to glance at Daryl in confusion, the man continued, “The roads might still be muddy. If you get stuck, you can call me and I’ll bring the pick-up.”

Jesus nodded and took the phone, tapped in his number under Contacts. “Listen…thanks for everything.”, he said, avoiding Daryl’s eyes but sincerity lacing his voice.

“Weren’t no trouble. Sorry you didn’t get a story, man.”

“It happens.”, Jesus shrugged as he pulled the door open. A pitiful whine sounded from the floor, and he looked down to see Buck at his knee, staring up with sad eyes.

“Sorry, Buck, gotta go.”, he smiled faintly and patted the dog’s head. “You keep being a good boy for Daryl.”

One last glance, and Jesus walked out the door to his car, stomach sinking and heart begging him to turn around and go back. But he kept his gaze solidly in front of him until he was well down the road and Daryl’s house was out of sight.

He made it back to the hotel just fine, checked out without (gratefully) having to spend even a single night in the seedy, smelly room. He sped as fast as he could safely go through the gauntlet of potholes on the small road home. It was barely dark when he reached the interstate. Another hour, and he pulled up in front of his small, dilapidated duplex.

Someone was standing on his porch. Tall with broad shoulders, muscles bulging from beneath a tight black t-shirt, dark hair cropped short. _Martinez_.

“What the fuck did you do, Jesus?” The man’s voice was a growl, low but loud enough to carry as Jesus climbed the few steps to his front door.

“It was a dead end, man. The guy didn’t see a thing.”

“So what? You even sure he was telling the truth?” Martinez stepped in front of Jesus’ door, thick arms folded across his chest, blocking his entrance like a bouncer at a bar.

“I would’ve done the spell if he was lying.” Jesus kept his best honest expression plastered to his face, trying hard to keep his voice casual.

Martinez shifted on his feet, leaning down, eyes boring into Jesus until he was forced to meet the other’s gaze. “You’re full of shit, man. I know that human saw me. He had a crossbow aimed straight at my head.”

Jesus squared his shoulders. “But he didn’t shoot”, he deadpanned. “He probably thought you were just a dog.”

“Bullshit.”, scoffed Martinez. “When the council finds out about this, you’re going to be excommunicated, or worse. What, was this guy cute or something? Did you fuck him?”

“It…it wasn’t like that…”, but Jesus was fumbling now. The Georgia Shifter Council, the governing body created to protect and defend shapeshifters such as himself, and Martinez, would find out. Hell, they probably already knew. He’d been voted Extractor three years ago, and not once had he failed. He would be kicked off the council, no doubt, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t also take his life. Disobedience was not looked upon lightly in their community. 

Eyes dark and predatory, Martinez stepped away from the door with a smirk and headed for his truck. “What are you going to do?”, called Jesus after him.

“I’m going to do what you should’ve done!”

“I’m the only one who can do the Extractor spell, Martinez!” Jesus stepped to the front of the porch as Martinez turned back to face him.

“I’ll handle it my way, Jesus. That’s my territory and I’m not moving just because some dumbass saw me. You know what happens. One person sees, then they talk, then people start to hunt. And don’t look at me like that. You should’ve done your fucking job. Now I have to go make my territory safe again.” He slammed the truck door behind him and spun out onto the street in a haze of dust.

Jesus paced the porch for a few minutes, rubbing his hands over his eyes. Martinez would find Daryl, he knew, and soon. All he had to do was go to the woods where Daryl first saw the chupacabra and followed Jesus’ scent to the house. 

With a heavy sigh, he knew what he had to do. Martinez would rip Daryl to shreds, and Buck too, if he tried to protect his owner. He couldn’t let it happen. Council be damned, he was already a goner. But Daryl didn’t have to be. 

He jumped in his car and sped toward Daryl’s house as fast as he could, cursing the fact that his old car would never catch up to Martinez’ huge truck. But he made it in good time, flying by the Backroads Inn without a glance. It was past midnight, but even in the dark, he didn’t miss a turn on the dirt roads leading to the house. He stopped short of the last turn, pulling his car to the side of the road.

He shed his clothes and boots, throwing them haphazardly into the passenger seat. The night air was wet with a heavy mist that had returned after the rain cleared, the chill drawing goosebumps out on his skin. He gave it no mind as he stepped into the woods, and immediately shifted.

Chupacabras were rare in Georgia. Martinez was one, and there were a handful of others. They were an old species, roaming the Americas long before men, and while some shifters reproduced through bites or mating with humans, chupacabras only mated with each other in their shifted form. 

They weren’t pretty, but fortunately for Jesus, their scent was strong and specific. Between that and the waxing moon casting blue pools of light onto the forest floor, it would be easy for him to hunt Martinez. He just hoped he’d gotten there in time.

He padded silently on four feet, the mist now clinging to his solid white fur as he ran. The scent hit his nose almost immediately, and he followed furiously, head down, through the trees toward Daryl’s house. He was upon it in minutes, moving through the trees toward the back porch. 

Martinez was there, shifted, one giant paw on the porch, body low to the ground as he slunk to the door. He moved with stealth for something so large, his body lean but approaching the height and length of a small bear. His fur was short and sparse, offering hardly any protection, but sharp four-inch spikes lined his spine, their sharp tips gleaming in the light of the moon. He caught Jesus’ scent and turned quickly, widening his stance, long yellow teeth dripping with venom as he let out a low growl.

Jesus met the growl with his own, rumbling from deep within his chest. Although he was much smaller than Martinez in human form, his wolf almost matched the chupacabra in size. His fur was thicker, as were his teeth, but he was still at a disadvantage. His best resource against a creature as vicious as Martinez was that he was nimble, and quick on his feet. If he could stay away from the poisonous teeth and spines, and catch Martinez in the throat, he would have a chance. And he had to win. Even if Daryl heard the fight and managed to escape, Martinez would hunt him. 

They lunged at the same time, huge bodies thudding against each other in the space between the trees and the porch. Jesus didn’t keep contact for long, instead backing up to circle Martinez, looking for a way to take him to the ground without getting bitten or impaled. Martinez turned with him, red eyes glowing, snarling. Suddenly he stopped and looked at the porch, then back at the wolf. A self-satisfied sneer drew back his lips, and he began to howl.

Long, siren wails rose and drifted through the trees, echoing off the house, rising to the moon. Jesus instantly understood that Martinez was calling Daryl out. It would be too easy for the chupacabra to attack Daryl, knowing that as long as his back was to the wolf he couldn’t be taken down. He had to move now, and Martinez was nowhere near vulnerable enough, but once again he found himself running out of time.

He charged in low, going straight for Martinez’ throat, but the angle was wrong. The chupacabra buried his mouth in the wolf’s fur, sinking his teeth deep into the shoulder muscle. Jesus managed a bite on the other’s leg before he felt the sting of sharp teeth again on the scruff of his neck. Adrenaline sped the venom through his veins and he yelped as his legs went numb. He stumbled to the ground, the chupacabra’s breath hot against neck.

Martinez released him, stepping back and puffing his chest in triumph. Jesus’ vision blurred as warm blood gushed from his shoulder. He couldn’t move, Martinez had won, and Daryl would die. On his side now, chest heaving, he glanced one last time at the porch. A man stood there in the shadows, crossbow raised, and the last sound he heard was a thump, and a scream, before the world faded away.

***

Jesus’ surprise that he woke up alive the next morning was only superseded by the surprise of _where_ he woke up. He was in a bedroom, curled on a nest of soft blankets on the floor in the corner. He had barely opened his eyes to survey his surroundings when a thick, wet tongue began lapping his hand.

“Buck.”, he rasped, his voice hoarse and breaking. Lacking the energy to do more, he lifted his fingers and rested them on Buck’s nose, earning a happy whine in response. He smiled weakly and closed his eyes again, out of exhaustion more than contentment. He was in Daryl’s house, fully shifted back to human, but he knew nothing of what had happened after he blacked out. 

He didn’t feel afraid of Daryl, but he wasn’t sure he was being smart, especially in his weakened state. Every shifter knew the dangers that humans represented. If a shifter were seen, he or she was often hunted. Just the hint of a sighting from the town drunk could send hordes of gun-wielding, blood-thirsty people to canvas an area for miles, searching for any hint of the creature. Sometimes Jesus would have almost an entire town to Extract. 

It was a small miracle that he landed that job at the Cryptoid, where he could make an income, all while following the shifters and covering their tracks. He’d done his share of covering his own tracks too.

His musing was interrupted by the clink of glass on glass. He opened his eyes again, aware of the sound of feet shuffling through the open bedroom door and towards his corner.

“Easy, man.” Daryl spoke softly as Jesus subconsciously flinched back from his approach. “I just brought ya some breakfast. Figured you’d be hungry.”

That’s when the smell hit him, fresh eggs and milk and bacon, and before he could even lift his head, a trickle of drool oozed from the corner of his mouth. He heard the smallest huff of laughter before he caught Daryl’s eyes with his own. The other man knelt next to Jesus, a tray in his hands.

“Guess you were right.” Jesus struggled to sit up, keeping the weight off of his injured, now perfectly bandaged shoulder. He grabbed a thick slice of bacon from the plate Daryl had set down in front of him, chewing thoughtfully. “What happened to Martinez? And how am I alive?”

“The chupacabra’s dead, arrow between his eyes. I buried him, no one will find him. And the bites coulda been worse. I stitched up a few spots, but mostly you just needed bandaging.” 

“But…the poison?” Jesus knew there’s no way he should be alive. 

Daryl smirked. “Old family recipe. Y’know, for snake bites and such. I just tripled the strength and hoped it would do.” His blue eyes appeared almost fond as he spoke, and he nudged the plate closer to Jesus, encouraging him to continue eating.

“Thanks.”, said Jesus, simply because he was weak and was at an unusual loss for words. He finished his meal in silence, drinking the entire glass of milk, then looked at Daryl appreciately. “I mean it, thank you. I don’t know any other person who would’ve tried to help, who would’ve done what you did…”. And that’s when the thought struck him, a remote memory, something he’d heard long ago about a certain kind of human that watched over shifters and other creatures from the realm that other humans considered to be mythical. 

“So,” said Daryl, “You’re like what..a werewolf?”

“I’m a shapeshifter.” Jesus’ voice was stronger now. “But yes, I shift into a wolf and I can bite people and turn them into what I am.” He watched Daryl carefully, gauging the look in his eyes and his body language for any sign of distress of danger. He only saw curiosity, so he continued. “But I don’t bite people, usually, and I don’t lose control on the full moon, or ever. And I can shift whenever I want to. Or need to.”

“And you needed to last night?”

“Yes.” Once again, it was time to put all his cards on the table. If he was right about what Daryl is, then the man he’s talking to is as rare in the world of humans as a white werewolf is in the land of shapeshifters. “There’s a…community…a council…that looks out for the interests of those of us who are a bit…different. It’s my job to extract memories from people who see us, who may want to harm us. I…I make them forget.” His eyes were trained to the floor now, unable and unwilling to see how badly Daryl might be taking this information. 

“That why you came here? To make me forget?”

Jesus nodded. 

“But you didn’t…you didn’t do it. Why?” Daryl’s voice was soft, and when Jesus looked up they locked eyes again, that heavy energy of connection once again filling the air between them.

“Why did you kill Martinez, instead of me? You didn’t know who I was, why we were here.” Swallowing, Jesus moved his hand slowly, resting it lightly on Daryl’s. 

“It was just the right thing to do. I just…knew, somehow.”, said Daryl.

“That’s the same answer I have to your question. It was just the right thing to do, to walk away. I wanted to keep you safe. I didn’t know why, before, but now I think I do.” He curled his fingers, intertwining them with Daryl’s. When the man responded in kind, he continued. “I think you’re an Advocate. We haven’t seen one in a long time, not in my lifetime, but there are humans that watch out for us, keep us safe.”

Daryl grunted, giving a slight nod of understanding, his eyes narrow as if trying to filter through all the new information he was processing. 

Jesus continued. “Can you tell me why you refused to tell anyone you saw the chupacabra?”

“It wasn’t right. He was just an animal, out there in those woods. I mean, he looked dangerous, but he wasn’t hurtin’ nobody.” He steeled his gaze. “I only hunt to eat. Just like the predators. Ain’t no reason to kill somethin’ just because it’s different. And if I’d told…there woulda been twenty drunk rednecks out here trying to hunt it down for sport. Hell, I had to stop Merle and his friends after he shot his mouth off at the bar. Nothin’ deserves that.”

His smile broadening as he listened, Jesus tightened his grip on Daryl’s hand. “I know I’m right then, you’re an Advocate. I’ll have to tell the council. You won’t have to do anything, really, they’ll just be glad to know you’re here, and believe me, it will save both of our lives if we tell them.”

Daryl nodded, and Jesus could tell from the look on his face that he was going to be asking a lot more questions. But for now, he felt Daryl’s hand on his shoulder, gently pushing him into the blankets. “Rest now, Paul.”, he said. “I mean, you can take the bed…”

Jesus was already on his side, nestling into the blankets, Buck curling up against his stomach. “I’m good right here.” He met Daryl’s eyes once more. “Thank you, for saving my life. For everything.”

Daryl smiled, tentatively reaching his hand to lightly smooth Jesus’ hair. “Just got one question before you go to sleep. How come a badass shapeshifting werewolf is scared of a little fuckin’ snake?”

Jesus snorted lightly but didn’t answer, already fading into sleep.


	12. Wildflowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Ever since he was born, flowers bloom around Daryl beyond his will according to what he’s feeling and to his heart. He doesn’t know why, or how, just that there’s no way to stop them. So he keeps it hidden, keeping to himself away from people the best he can, until he finds a drifter lost in the woods one day._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Flowers’ meanings not mentioned:**  
>  \- Yellow Carnation: disdain, "You have disappointed me"  
> \- Grass: submission  
> \- Anemone: forsaken/abandoned  
> \- Dead Leaves: sadness  
> \- Lily of the Valley: sweetness, happiness  
> \- Purple Lilac: first emotion of love  
> \- Yellow Tulip: hopeless love  
> \- Rue: regret, sorrow, repentance

Ever since he was born, flowers follow Daryl wherever he goes.

His mother calls him blessed, his father calls him a freak. But no matter what they call him, no matter what they do, flowers will always appear depending on his mood - blooming around him regardless of what he wants.

It’s not natural, whatever he is, that he knows.

It’s not _right_.

So Daryl does his best to stay away from the town and the people, afraid of their reaction and of what they’d say. They already see him as redneck trash, what would they think if they knew? What would they do to him?

It’s not hard at all to do it, really.

Daryl has always been quiet and after his mom goes up in flames he goes from soft-spoken and shy to dead silent, only the mourningful dark crimson roses that show wherever he goes to prove he’s there at all. That he’s feeling and alive.

Even if he wishes otherwise.

Even if his dad does too.

He tries make them stop by force, a belt in one hand and ripped off flowers in another, punishing Daryl for every carnation, every petunia and every grass that grew in an unnatural way until he learns how to keep his emotions subtle and numb around his father.

He doesn’t see the small, resilient cactus that grows hidden inside of Daryl’s palm instead.

...

Daryl keeps his feelings hidden, not giving anything away as much as he can and keeping his distance from people, but the flowers… the flowers follow his heart. And he can’t control it no matter how much he wants to.

Instead he finds solace in the woods.

The same deep Georgian woods he got lost as a child once, forgotten by the world with tiny anemone flowers blooming at his every step and nobody that’d miss him at home. The woods where he first learned to hunt with Merle.

It’s more of a home to him than the old run-down cabin he’s lived ever since his father bit the dust, a place where Daryl can just _be_.

Be useful, be free.

Be himself.

He doesn’t need sleeves to hide the occasional leaves and flowers that grow on his arms and hands nor does he need to pay attention to every single feeling and little thought that could cause something to bloom. Instead he can let himself truly feel things, with no need to watch his back in the quiet woods as his only company there are the animals he hunts.

Lonely mushrooms and peaceful olive flowers surround him as he stays still, watching, his eyes on his prey and crossbow in hands.

It feels natural, the weight of the weapon comforting as he takes one step forwards, like Daryl was born to do it. To do _this_. He takes a deep breath. The world around him going slow and disappearing. A finger on the trigger. He breathes in.

One silent shot and the deer drops dead.

And out.

And he feels whole again.

...

Daryl’s on his way home dragging the game when he realizes he’s not alone. There’s a person - a man, he notices - a few feet in front of him, clearly lost and in need of help. He closes his eyes, debating with himself if it’s really worth it.

Nobody was supposed to be here. After all those years, rarely ever someone entered these woods and surely no outsider. It’s the reason he likes it in the first place: he’s completely alone here.

Or he was, until now.

_Maybe he’ll find his way back on his own._

_Maybe he ain’t need him._

“Hello? Someone there?”

Daryl sighs, a quick check assuring him there were no flowers to be seen, and steps into view. The man is younger than him but not by much and he clearly didn’t belong around this parts, if his clothes and accent had any say on it.

“Ya lost?”

“Oh, thank God! Yeah, I am. I might need a little help here,  I have no idea where I am,” the man answers easily. “You’re a hunter?” He gestures at the dead deer and hides well his grimace at it, smile barely faltering. “I’m Paul, by the way. Paul Rovia. But most people call me Jesus.”

Daryl nods at him, turning away with a gesture for _‘Jesus’_ to follow him and keeping his indifference. “Daryl Dixon.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Daryl. Not so much on the circumstances but you know. Still.”

He doesn’t answer - doesn’t look back at him, either. Instead Daryl just keeps on walking, hoping to get rid of the man as quick as possible. It’s not the path he usually takes, but he knows these woods like the palm of his hands.

Speaking of which, he can’t help but ask.

“What were you even doin’ out here?”

“Hiking?”

It’s more of a question than an answer and it makes Daryl stop for a second.

“Balls-deep in Georgia?”

“Look, I’ll be the first to admit it wasn’t such a great idea,” Jesus says laughing, throwing his hands up in defeat. “I thought I could do it, I’ve done it in different places and managed, but clearly that wasn’t the case here.”

“Hm. You got lucky, ain’t nobody in these woods but me.”

“I’m glad you found me then, without you I’d still be lost, thank you. I like visiting places and seeing new, interesting things. Like curiosities! World's Largest Ball of Twine, that stuff. You never know what you’ll find. So I’m always going from place to place. Get me in trouble sometimes, like today.”

“You’re crazy,” he snorts, probably more amused than he should be by the stranger.

“Probably, yeah.” There’s no hurt in Jesus’ voice, his smile if anything even bigger at the offense. “But it makes life interesting.”

Daryl nods at that and says nothing else, trying to take advantage of the peacefulness between them to focus on making his emotions still - he doesn’t like the way the other makes him drop his guard, how _easy_ it is to talk to him. That means trouble, and Daryl didn’t get this far by being careless.

There’s no reason for them to keep the conversation going anyway.

Clearly nobody told Jesus that.

“You do this a lot? I mean hunting, not helping strangers lost in the woods,” the man asks, interest clear in his tone as he continues on. “Well, actually, _do_ you always help strangers here?”

“People don’t come here,” comes the short answer. “And I like huntin’, and the _quiet_.”

Either Jesus doesn’t catch what he means or he doesn’t care, because the chatterbox keeps going. “Oh, so I’m just special like that, huh?”

“Or maybe you’re just a dumbass, going where folks don’t.”

“Maybe, but I get to be rescued by a handsome hunter and they don’t, so it’s their loss,” Jesus says teasingly, making Daryl freeze where he stands - dumbfounded and with his face pink as bashful peonies bloom all around. “Sorry, did I make you uncomfortable? I know sometimes I can be too—what was _that?_ ”

Shit.

That startles Daryl back into reality, a scowl in his face as the flowers wither and die in a matter of seconds and he quickly returns to his path, ignoring Jesus’ confused noises. _He fucked up, he fucked up, he fucked up._

“Nothing.”

“What do you mean ‘nothing’, that was something! Please tell me you saw it too.” Jesus follows him, still obviously distraught, but when Daryl looks back the man is still staring back at the little that was rest of flowers. “That… That doesn’t just happen, Daryl. Plants don’t just grow in a second and die.”

“It was _nothing_ , you hear me? You saw nothin’, you say nothin’, and you ain’t coming back here,” he spats at Jesus, voice almost a growl with his thick accent. _Please don't say anything,_ Daryl pleads mentally.

_Please agree._

Jesus nods a little frantic, and the relief Daryl thought he’d feel at the sight is short-lived as the man starts to hyperventilate and back away from him. “R-right, ok. Yeah, I’m just gonna… go, alright?”

Disappointed bellflowers taunt Daryl for the loss as Jesus disappears in the woods, and he allows himself to sit down and try to breath. If Daryl closes his eyes he can see Jesus’ distress as his father’s voice booms in his mind, confirming his every thought, his every insecurity. He isn’t normal, that is sure, and the other man’s reaction just proves it even more.

He’s just _wrong, wrong, wrong_ and Jesus is now aware of it.

Worthless, cursed, useless, _freak_.

Daryl doesn’t cry, not there and not now, he doesn’t allow himself to. Instead he tries to control his breath as he rips the flowers one by one with shaky hands, ignoring the slight pain from where they’re pulled from his arms - already too used to it to bother. It doesn't bleed, _it never bleeds_ , and he regrets that fact then.

It takes until all the flowers are dead and gone for him to calm down, and only then he notices that, in his confusion, Jesus went the wrong way.

Logic tells him to leave Jesus behind, let him find his way home alone. That he can’t afford to be around the man now. But Daryl knows he can’t: he’s Jesus’ way out of the forest, and the guy doesn’t deserve to be left astray. Chatty as he is, he didn’t do anything wrong, not really.

Daryl’s the one who didn’t pay enough attention and fucked up, getting worked-up over a joke Jesus probably didn’t even mean. He’s to blame.

It’s not long until he finds Jesus again, the man didn’t go far and the messy tracks he left behind point straight to him. And there, with his hands on his face and clearly fighting his own panic attack, is Jesus. Daryl doesn’t make his presence known; the other knew he was there already, having moved to acknowledge Daryl while still hiding himself.

After a minute or so watching Jesus regulate his breaths, trying his best to convince himself he’s not concerned for the guy, the other finally looks up. Staring straight at Daryl, still unstable, yet the hunter could see as Jesus’ mind tried to make sense of it all.

“Is it these woods? Is that why nobody comes here, because of the flowers?”

Daryl ignores the question, helping the man find balance and gesturing for him to follow. “C’mon now.”

He focuses on his path, even when the thoughts are too loud and too much, even when Jesus keeps asking questions. Daryl keeps his direction clear, the only goal to get away from the other as soon as he can - he can let Jesus get to whatever conclusion he finds, let him think the woods are magic or some shit, anything is better than the man looking at him and seeing what he truly is and know he ain’t _normal_. Daryl can’t stand that thought.

Each question is a stab, and Daryl does his best to ignore the flowers wanting to bloom. He ignores Jesus, too. Not wanting to give away even more to a man who was only a stranger.

_To a man who looked at him and didn’t see some worthless trash._

But somehow Jesus sees through Daryl anyway.

“Is it…” Jesus starts again, his voice now soft where it once was loud and frantic. He sounds hesitant. “Is it you?”

“Shut up.”

“Daryl, please, I just—I just want to understand, ok? Help me understand,” he continues, ignoring the glare Daryl sends his way and coming closer. “You can’t blame me for being curious.”

_Shut up, shut up, shut up._

_“_ I don’t know if it’s real or not and I’m just seeing things, if I really am just crazy. So talk to me, _help me_. Please.”

Jesus is looking at Daryl, so eager and just so fucking sincere even if slightly freaked out, and it just makes Daryl want to tell him. To open up about things he’s never told anyone. To talk, really talk.

Instead Daryl snaps and pushes him into a tree as lavenders and angry petunias gain life; colorful and vibrant flowers to represent stormy emotions. Jesus seems so shocked at this that he barely reacts, throwing his hands up.

“I ain’t one of yer curiosities, ain’t some freak show for you to stare,” _even if he is_ , “I don’t care what you think of me,” _even if he does,_ “so just shut the fuck up and be quiet for once. You don’ gotta understand shit.”

They stare at each other, eye to eye, a whole conversation happening almost fully through looks. Maybe Jesus sees something in his eyes, maybe his words finally sink in, because the next words that come out of his mouth are:

“You’re right.”

The flowers wither together with his anger, and he lets go of where he’s holding Jesus by his shirt, confusion clear in his face but the other isn’t done talking yet.

“I know that, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make it sound… I’ve never seen anything like it before, so I didn’t think. I’m sorry.” Jesus takes a step forward when Daryl takes one back, trying his best to show he’s sincere. “And if it means something, I don’t think you’re a freak and I don’t think it makes you one. I think it makes you special, somehow.”

The peonies come again together with his blush, but they don’t make the distrust go away. Daryl doesn’t believe him. _Can’t_ believe him, really.

He’s not special, no, he’s cursed.

But Jesus doesn’t know that.

“It’s pretty cool to be honest. And the flowers! They’re so pretty, and really, who doesn’t like flowers? So… I’m sorry I pushed and made you uncomfortable.”

Daryl nods, unsure. He doesn’t know how to answer the man, how to process any of it, but he’s thankful to see the honesty on the other’s face. So instead he turns and walks a couple of minutes until he finds what he’s been looking for: the road.

When he looks back, Jesus is smiling again. Daryl doesn’t know what to do with that either.

“Done helped ya find the road, now you can go.”

Jesus steps out of the woods, sun making his hair shine gold now that the trees no longer hide it. “If I come back—”

“ _Don’t._ ”

“If I come back,” he repeats, the flirting tone back in his voice as if none of the mess happened at all, “will you be here?”

It takes everything inside of him to not get flustered again, to not get _hopeful_. Instead Daryl reminds himself exactly why meeting the man again is a bad idea and why he can’t. It’ll be best for him - for both of them - if Jesus stays as far away as possible.

He doesn’t need the trouble.

“No,” Daryl lies, and orange mocks bloom in deceit, hidden away in his palms, “now go home and leave me alone.”

Jesus chuckles, as if he knows. “We’ll see. Bye, Daryl! Thanks again for helping me out.”

Daryl tells himself, as he watches him go away, that it's the last time he'll ever see the man; there's no reason for him to hope for otherwise. _Nobody ever came back for him, so why would a complete stranger?_

He tells himself it’s good riddance. He can finally have some peace and go back to his routine.

Repeats it so much he almost believes it.

...

And, of course, Jesus comes back.

Daryl tries to ignore it the best he can and keep his way until he realizes the prick likely got lost again, given his tracks. Goddammit. It only takes him a couple of minutes to find the man and when he does, Jesus is sitting on a fallen tree’s trunk and drinking a bottle of water. Almost at home.

Waiting for him.

_Goddammit._

“The fuck you doin’ here again?” Daryl asks instead of saying hello, mostly for show than anything, “Stop gettin’ lost, I won’t help ya every time. Damn city slicker, stomping around like an elephant and leaving tracks everywhere, scaring the game.”

Jesus smiles brightly at him. “You calling me fat, Dixon?”

“I’m callin’ ya careless, an’ stupid. Showing your face around here again.”

“I wanted to see you.”

Daryl doesn’t have to look to know purple flowers bloomed somewhere - knows himself too well not to - so he ignores them. He ignores more than just that.

He snorts instead. “Right. Bullshit.”

“Hey, I’m saying the truth. But good to know I didn’t hallucinate the whole thing.” Jesus looks at the flowers near him, awe on his face. “Those are lavenders, right? The purple ones? I’ve seen them before, yesterday. Why do they bloom?”

_Because I don’t trust you,_ he doesn’t say. “They just do.”

“Right, ok. And the other one? They’re different.” He points at the joyful delphiniums. “There must be a reason, right? I mean, why those specific flowers?”

“Ain’t none of yer business. They just _do_.”

“How does it work though?”

“Don’t know, don’t care. If all yer here for is them stupid flowers I can show you the way back,” Daryl answers curtly, already getting impatient. “Ain’t telling you shit.”

Of course Jesus isn’t here for him, not really.

“Was worth a try.” He shrugs, sounding nonchalant, and his smile stays on. “So, what do you usually do around here?”

Daryl stares, not knowing what to do with that reaction. In spite of himself, slowly one by one the lavenders die out being replaced by more joyful flowers. He doesn’t want to admit he’s happy at that, because he _isn’t,_ but his heart won’t let him lie to himself.

“Huntin’.”

“Yeah, I know that, but besides hunting. What can we do? How do you have fun? There must be something you enjoy doing. Show me.”

There’s not really much to do in the woods; Daryl imagines Jesus will likely get pretty bored quickly around here, _around him_ , being from the city and all. He should want that - want Jesus to leave and never return. But he doesn’t.

For some reason, Daryl wants him to stay. To enjoy being around.

_He’s been alone for far too long._

Agrimonies bloom near both of them as Daryl watches Jesus put his water bottle back in his bag together with the handkerchief he apparently was sitting on, ready to follow the hunter wherever he goes - little yellow flowers to show his thankfulness. The silence stays for more than necessary before Daryl awkwardly cleans his throat.

“Ain’t do much,” he says, and as soon as Jesus’ face falls he completes hurried, “but I can teach ya how to hunt, if you want. So you ain’t so useless all alone. Ever eat a rabbit?”

Jesus laughs, unoffended.

“If I promise to give it a try, will you let me bring a deck of cards or something next time?”

_Next time_ , his traitor mind repeats. _There’ll be a next time._

“Maybe,” Daryl jokes with a hint of a smile.

“Come on then, show me how to get Bambi’s mom.”

Turns out, Jesus can’t hunt for shit. He manages to keep scaring the game away until Daryl scolds him, and he keeps losing his hold on the crossbow no matter how much the hunter adjusts his arms for him, but Daryl was expecting that already. Nobody is good on the first try.

They still manage to bag two rabbits and Jesus seems to have fun, if the smiles he keeps throwing his way says anything.

That’s what matters.

Flowers still grow, but Jesus doesn’t pry again; he doesn’t stare at Daryl weirdly, doesn’t ask anything else. Instead he compliments the flowers with a soft smile on his face, touching the petals but never picking at it, never pulling any of them. It shouldn’t mean so much to him, some hippy prick accepting this part of Daryl. But it does.

God, it does.

Somehow Jesus stays until the night comes as they sit around a makeshift fire, trading harmless stories. He tells Daryl about the things he’s seen, the cities he’s gone, the people he’s met - always managing to get a reaction out of the hunter. In place Daryl tells him a little bit of his own ones.

“ _No way_ you saw the Chupacabra, I don’t believe it!”

“I’m tellin’ ya, I did. The ugly sonuvabitch was right in front of me,” Daryl defends his story, remembering the day clearly - or, well, as clearly as he could. “Right here in these woods.”

“You’re pulling my leg.”

“Merle says it was them shrooms, but that’s bull. I know what I saw, ok?! I saw that blood-suckin’ thing with my own eyes. It was real, and it was _ugly_.”

“Shrooms?” Jesus has a wide smile now and amusement clear in his eyes. “Well, now it makes sense.”

The man’s sitting next to him on a log while Daryl’s on the ground, Jesus’ hand stroking one of the affectionate Stock flowers that surrounds them together with a few lilies of the valley. He doesn’t comment on it, instead he stares right at him and smiles.

“Fuck off,” Daryl complains in mock offense, kicking the tip of Jesus’ boot with his own and making the other laugh.

Jesus throws his hands up in surrender, still chuckling to himself like the dumbass he is. “Alright, alright, I’m sorry. I believe you,” he assures. A few seconds later he asks more softly. “Who’s Merle?”

“My brother,” is the only answer that he gives.

Maybe Jesus sees something on his expression because he doesn’t ask anything else, instead starting another one of his stories about some douche named Gregory and something about a pregnant lady; Daryl doesn’t follow it very well, but it still makes him snort entertained at times as the weird mood disappears like it was never there. Jesus is good at that.

When Daryl tells him about the time he got lost in the woods, the other seems worried for his past self. It’s touching, really, even if it wasn’t the reaction he was looking for. Nobody ever cared about it before.

The prick still laughs at his itchy ass though.

Overall, it’s the happiest and most relaxed Daryl’s felt in a long, long time. There’s no threat when he finally walks Jesus back to the road, only quiet goodbyes and a promise for more, and delphiniums join him once more.

...

It ends up becoming a thing for the two.

Jesus shows up in the woods and waits until Daryl finds him, everyday at first then three or two times a week. Daryl complains halfheartedly about it yet every single time he allows Jesus to follow him, smiling, as flowers bloom from every footprint they leave behind.

It’s routine, now. It’s _them_.

And Daryl doesn’t know how to feel about it.

The days where Jesus doesn’t come Daryl refuses to let himself feel sad over it. Even when mushrooms and dead leaves taunt him, he keeps his head firm, ignoring them. Daryl’d been alone most of his life, he’s not going to start caring now.

And he doesn’t.

He also definitely doesn’t scout the woods all over looking for signs of the man.

...

Daryl ends up allowing Jesus to ask questions even if he rarely ever answers them, and the man has taken as a job to come up with crazy theories as to why it happens going from superpowers - _“What a shit ass superhero would that be?”_ \- to a blessing and even goddamn fairies, taking inspiration from comic books and folklore.

“Maybe _you’re_ Jesus, who knows?” the prick jokes once.

Daryl doesn’t see the point of thinking about it, considering it a waste of time and dismissing the questions of why. He’s not special, he’s not _blessed_.

It’s a curse, as simple as that, and he’s accepted it long before.

But Jesus disagrees.

And as the days go past, one by one, the flowers change blooming instead ones that had never before.

It’s when Jesus smiles wide and radiant, face slightly flushed from being under the Georgian sun, that purple lilacs appear. Taunting Daryl with the growing feelings that he didn’t want to face and admit. He keeps his denial over them, even when the flowers show him what a bunch of bullshit that is.

He ain’t—he _can’t_.

And so he won’t.

Or so Daryl fools himself.

...

The first time Jesus follows him back home to the cabin where he lives, with the first tellings of rain threatening them, Daryl isn’t exactly happy about it. Peonies and cautionary oleanders accompany the duo as proof of that. He’d been avoiding this for a reason: it screams redneck trash.

Daryl doesn’t want Jesus to see how he lives, to see what kind of life it is.

But the man doesn’t seem to notice his reluctance, instead choosing to keep it light by pestering Daryl every three seconds asking where they’re going and if it’s near already.

“Is this when you reveal to me that you’re secretly an axe murderer and that you’re taking me somewhere to kill me?”

“I wish,” Daryl huffs.

“Aw, don’t say that! You know you’d miss me too much.” He nudges the hunter with his shoulder, smiling teasingly. “Who else would keep you company and win against you on Gin?”

“Ya mean talk my ear off against my will an’ cheat?”

“Whatever you want to call it, Daryl. Whatever you want to call it.”

When they get there it’s almost as if he was seeing the small run-down cabin for the first time: he could see every flaw, every ugliness, as the back of his neck burned with shame. The moss on the roof, the clear lack of care of the wooden walls and even places that had broken up or rotted. The entire place was in need for repair.

For the first time in his life ever since he was a kid Daryl wishes he had something better going on his life.

Daryl’d never been one to complain or desire after what he couldn’t have, always took what he could get and survive with. But a nicer house, one he could show Jesus with pride and actually feel like it’s a home, instead of just a place where he sleeps, well… he can see the appeal of it now as he pointedly doesn’t look at Jesus and instead plays with the flowers on his arms.

“You live _here_?”

He ignores how hot his face gets and nods in answer, but Jesus seems to realize how it sounded and backtracks.

“I was almost sure you lived in the middle of the woods, like a guardian or something,” he explains. “Now I have to scratch that from my list of theories. Damn, it was a good guess.”

Daryl throws leaves at him, huffing. “Dumbass.”

But the flowers bloom pleased anyway.

And it ends up becoming normal for Jesus to show up at his house, having learned how to get around the woods a while ago.

Sometimes they just sit on the porch and talk, sometimes Jesus brings food or they’ll eat whatever Daryl’s either hunted or managed to coach the other into catching; Jesus will whine about eating what once was a fluffy white rabbit but always downs the meat anyway, moaning at the flavor and making pleased poppies bloom as red as Daryl’s face.

They play cards and even chess once, bantering as the game goes on. Usually it ends with Jesus winning, or Daryl angrily calling it quits and accusing the other of cheating. Not that he ever has any proof against him, the prick was damn good at it, but he knows. He just _knows_ it, mints growing in suspicion at every game.

And by the fake innocent look Jesus gives him every single time he’s accused, Daryl is right.

“I’ll get you one day fer it, just wait. Don’t think ya fooled me with them puppy eyes,” he says one day grumpily in response to it, but his threats only make the other laugh and laugh, entirely too amused by it. “I will!”

“I’m counting on it, Daryl.”

He ends up losing - _again_ \- but it’s worth it even through the exaggerated indignation if only for the fun they have at it, and the cocky smirk Jesus sends his way at the victory which just makes him huff and give him the middle finger.

It’s a different kind of peace Daryl never had, the days he spends with Paul. Those days...

Those days almost feel like home.

And Daryl’s starting to fear for when the next shoe will drop.

...

It’s in another rainy afternoon that Jesus speaks up. “What’s the name of that flower? The white one?”

He seems hesitant about it, as if Daryl might refuse to answer - which he’s done quite a few times - or get offended. Daryl has to look back at the flowers to make sure there’s nothing wrong or suspicious about them; they’d been joking around before that and Daryl had managed to make Jesus lose his breath laughing, face flushed and all, and he knows exactly what flower it is before he even sees it.

“Gardenia, why?”

“They’re beautiful,” Jesus answers. Which is true, they are, but Daryl knows the other well enough now to know he’s stalling so he keeps staring at him, waiting. It’s not longer before Jesus sighs and continues. “I just—they grow depending on your feelings, right? On your mood? And flowers have their own language so I thought I’d try to learn it. I want to understand what they mean and what they represent to you.”

The admission leaves Daryl not knowing how to react. “Oh.”

“You never wondered?”

Daryl didn’t need to - he knows exactly what his flowers mean. He knows every name, every meaning.

Daryl remembers sitting in an old and dusty library with Merle, the only person who ever really accepted and tried to understand him before, learning all about flowers from one of the big books there. They’d joke about some, get quiet and pensive about others. But Daryl remembers memorizing each page with all the attention he could manage, desperate to understand, devouring the information even of the ones he didn’t think he’d ever bloom.

Like this one.

_‘Gardenia: secret love, joy, ‘you’re lovely’ and/or sweet love.’_

The memory seems to mock him now, leaving a bad taste in his mouth as he thinks about Jesus finding out about his—about _him._ Daryl wishes he had denied an answer, that he knew before he’d given out the name.

But the fact that Jesus is willing to do it. Not just willing, really, but thought of it on his own...

“Are you…” Jesus starts once the silence had gone on for too long, hesitance now back at full strength and his face contorted in worry. “Are you ok with that? Because I won’t if it makes you uncomfortable, I get it.”

He can’t say no.

Daryl shrugs, trying his best to not sound bothered. “Yeah, if you wanna. ‘S whatever to me.”

The relief is instant and soon enough that damn endearing smile is back on the other’s face like it never left, making even more flowers bloom around them as Daryl ignores both his worries and the warmth inside of him.

“That’s great! I found a book a while ago but it doesn’t have pictures, which seems a bit of an oversight if you ask me, and I wasn’t sure if you’d agree to it. I remembered some, like lavender and petunia. My mom used to like them, y’know, _before_.” Before the group home, he doesn’t need to add. Daryl nods when Jesus trails off for a bit. “But that didn’t give me a lot, I already knew more or less what they meant.”

“My ma liked them too,” Daryl’s voice is quiet as he shares it, almost as if to himself, but Jesus looks at him attentively regardless of that. “Used ta smile whenever she saw them flowers, callin’ them miracles.”

It goes silent for a bit before Jesus asks, softly. “Do you miss her?”

“I didn’t know her much, used to hit her waist by the time she wen’ up in smokes. Not a lot to remember.”

Even as he tries to shrug it off a single grieving aloe still grows by their feet. Jesus doesn’t mention it, doesn’t say anything else, but the hand on his shoulder stays there for long a while.

...

Jesus starts writing down the name of the flowers every now and then, and Daryl tries his best to not think about that and what it entails. He tries and tries and fails every time. The prospect terrifying to even try to imagine.

It’s a question of time, he knows, but he still tries to keep his denial until then.

Maybe if he doesn’t think Daryl can enjoy the time he has left with Jesus before things go sour. That’s enough for him, it has to be. For good things never last, even his flowers follow that rule, so why wouldn’t Jesus?

So Daryl answers with the name of his flowers, knowing very well he was dooming himself for later, and ignores the hopeless yellow tulips that bloom each time he does so.

...

Jesus ends up being a somewhat decent hunter after a while.

He can be quiet when necessary, a discipline to him that Daryl didn’t know the prick had, but he’s still far from good. Jesus hesitates before most shots, and bemoans the death of his preys even as they eat most of it later to avoid waste. Doesn’t enjoy skinning either, going green on the face when watching Daryl do it instead.

_A damn city slicker._

But still, the man learns how to track fast and is surprisingly good at traps. It’s fun to watch him go at it, barely even looking back at Daryl for reassurance as he works with confidence. Daryl is almost _proud._

“Honestly, I never imagined hunting could be this fun.”

“An’ useful,” Daryl reminds him.

“Sure, useful.” There’s a twinkle in Jesus’ eyes as he agrees easily. “I’m certain it’ll save our lives when supermarkets and food delivery stop being a thing and society falls apart.” He dodges as Daryl goes for his ankles, laughing.

“Or maybe when you get yer dumb ass lost in them woods again.”

“That too.”

Daryl shakes his head, entirely too amused by Jesus’ attics, as fond stocks and joyful delphiniums flowers bloom all around. “At least now ya finally learned how ta hold the crossbow right.”

“Unfortunately,” Jesus agrees in mock-mourning. “Now you won’t hold me to adjust it anymore.”

This time he doesn’t escape Daryl’s kick.

...

“You don’t really talk about your father,” Jesus brings up one day. “You’ve told me about your mom and even Merle, but never him.”

They’ve been sitting in silence until then, watching the quiet rain at the end of the day and drinking a beer or two with the crappy chinese Jesus got them. It’s one of those days, Daryl knows, where the chatterbox is silent and observant instead but still gets to him all the same.

The days where it all just feel so personal and _intimate_ , everything they do and every look they share, leaving Daryl not knowing how to react except to be honest.

“Not much to say, the old man was a piece of shit.”

The question comes at the same time resentful petunias and indifferent candytufts bloom. “When did he die?”

“While ago,” Daryl dismisses, not dishonest but not wanting to get into details either, “hunting accident.”

Jesus nods, looking back at the rain where the flowers now stand. He seems to think for a while, hesitant, before putting aside the take-out box he’s eating from. Daryl’s still not looking at him but the hunter rarely is; sometimes he feels like Jesus can see into his soul when they look at each other and so he avoids it when he can.

“And Merle?”

A snort. “Sonuvabitch’s alive, ain’t nothing kill a Dixon but a Dixon. He’s in prison.” He feels Jesus’ attention snap back at him and continues before the other can question it. “Hunting accident,” Daryl explains with morbid humor.

“Oh.”

“Yeah, exactly.”

He remembers that day. They thought nobody would miss Will enough that maybe Merle would get away with it, but with Daryl looking the way he was and the fight hours before it wasn’t long before the pigs took him in custody, and with the risk of going so public being too much Daryl hadn’t even been able to testify.

Merle went down, his shitty public lawyer not being able to help much given his past records, and he went down hard.

And it was all Daryl’s fault.

“I’m sorry, Daryl.”

Jesus doesn’t say anything else, but maybe he understands it from the detached way Daryl described his father’s death, or the way otherwise he never speaks of him. He puts his hand on top of Daryl’s, grounding him and offering comfort as the hunter looks back at him, and they share a moment of silence together before going back to their food.

It makes something warm twist inside Daryl’s heart, as a single red carnation blooms.

He pulls and crushes the offending flower as if it was the cause of all his problems before Jesus can notice it, hoping it had been a fluke and would never come back even as he knew otherwise.

...

Once the red carnation bloomed, however, they apparently refuse to leave him alone.

Taunting him whenever Jesus smiles or touches him in a certain way, never letting him forget about the feelings deep inside of him. Sometimes even when Jesus wasn’t there - if he so much thought about the man the flowers would appear.

Daryl crushes every single one of them out of spite, angry both at them and at himself.

He refuses to tell Jesus the name, and as small mercies go the man seems to understand and back off, but that doesn’t stop them from appearing and it doesn’t help the fact that Daryl had fallen deep and hopelessly in love with the prick that refused to leave him alone.

And as much as he wants to deny it, the flowers don’t allow it. Always a constant reminder of it.

The damn things.

He hates them now more than ever, more than anything, for what they won’t let him ignore.

...

“So… I read the book. You know, the one about the language of flowers."

Daryl’s heart stops, before coming back at full speed. He can feel his hands sweating as he closes them into fists and the daffodils that grow somewhere near. “Yeah?” At least his voice didn’t shake, unlike himself.

He can’t look at Jesus - _he can’t_ \- so he does his best to act normal and pretends to be fixing his crossbow instead.

This is when Jesus will reject him, call him out for being the freak he is and tell him that even if he’s gay he’s not that desperate, and Daryl’ll have ruined the only friendship he ever had by making the other uncomfortable. Jesus will laugh at him, or maybe he’ll turn him down kindly with pity in his eyes.

Or worse: he won’t, and then Daryl will be certain he’s everything his father ever accused him of being.

Daryl doesn’t know which is worse to think about.

“Yeah,” Jesus says, and his voice does shake slightly. “A while ago, actually, but I wasn’t sure how to… I didn’t know if…” There’s movement on the corner of his eyes where Jesus fidgets and moves around nervously when Daryl doesn’t say anything or looks up. “You flowers don’t lie, do they?”

He knows what Jesus is trying to do, giving him a way out. But he doesn’t take it. He _can’t_.

“No.”

“Oh.” It almost sounds as if Jesus had been expecting it. “Daryl, can you look at me?”

Daryl doesn’t answer - doesn’t look up, either. Instead he keeps cleaning a spot on his crossbow that has nothing on it and might soon enough even lose color from the way he keeps scratching at it giving all of his focus.

This is where the rejection comes, he knows.

“Please? I know. I already know, so please look at me, Daryl.” Jesus begs, and Daryl does it already expecting disgust. Expecting the pity that comes with the _‘I’m sorry, but I can’t’._ He prepares himself for the rejection.

Instead full lips meet his, more touching than kissing him, as his mind tries to work around what’s happening and why. Only when Jesus hands cups his cheeks that he kisses back, eagerness making up for inexperience and losing himself to the soft gesture. It’s so, so perfect.

So _Jesus._

So—

A crash noise as he drops his crossbow.

— _Wrong_.

_“I didn’t raise no faggot, boy, now ya better stop that shit before I kick yer teeth in!”_

Daryl gets away from the man, almost pushing him in the process, and stares in shock. Frozen. Words once yelled at him haunting his mind, taunting him so loudly he could swear they were being shouted right by his ear. He couldn’t stop them, he couldn’t, fear icing his heart as he looked at Jesus’ worried expression.

_“I see ya, with yer flowey bullshit an’ stinky eyes. You thin’ ya fool me? Yer nothin’ but a freak, a worthless piece of shit queer! Come back here now, son, I ain’t done with ya yet!”_

_No._

“Daryl? Are you ok, did I do something—?”

Soft hands touch his arms but all he knows are the rough ones that grabbed him instead, the ones that punched, that shook, that whipped, that _hurt_. Daryl flinches, hard, and pushes the hands away from him.

_“What do ya mean, lil’ brother? You some kind of fag now? Is that what ol’ Merle is hearin’?”_

He lets out a wounded snarl. “Go away!”

“Daryl?”

_“Ain’t no son of mine. I knew I shoulda killed ya the moment yer ma spat yer weak ass outta her. An abomination, that’s what ya are!”_

_Wrong, wrong, wrong._

“Daryl?” someone repeats, and suddenly Daryl sees him again.

Jesus.

But the anger is too much, rotting him inside and not letting him think; old fears and words blinding him.

_Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong._

“Leave me the fuck alone. I don’t wan’ ya here, I don’t wan’ _you_ ,” Daryl yells, face and words as cruel as the marigolds in his arms, harsh lies coming out of his mouth as orange mocks and petunias bloom all around. “So why don’t you get the fuck out of here, fag—”

_“Ya ain’t no queer, lil’ brother, not under my watch ya ain’t.”_

“Because I ain’t no queer,” his voice shakes as he sneers, repeating words that aren’t his, and he doesn’t stop. He can’t stop. “I jus’ wanna be _alone_. So leave.”

Daryl’s breath is too heavy and unstable but he doesn’t care as he waits for a response.

“Ok.”

He looks up, startled, and Jesus’ face almost makes him cry. It hurts more than any of his family’s words, any of the hits or scars. Because that… that he did himself, on someone he loved. He caused that pain himself.

Jesus’ cold voice hurts even more.

“I’m going now,” he say, collected, “I’m sorry you feel that way, and I’m sorry that I offended you.”

Daryl doesn’t watch as the other grabs his stuff, cursing under his breath as his shaky hands drop his bag more than once, and he doesn’t look up again to see if Jesus’ hitched breath meant what he thinks it meant. Instead he stares at the ground and the flowers, like the coward he is, and waits.

“Goodbye, Daryl.”

He doesn’t say it back.

He doesn’t look as Jesus leaves either.

It’s long before he comes back to himself, on his knees crying as if he’d been opened inside out, and the guilt and heartbreak and _hurt_ aches all over. Jesus left, and it was his fault. _What had he done?_ _Why?_

_He left, he left, he left._

_“I don’t think you’re a freak,”_ Jesus had told him when they first met. And maybe he’s right.

Maybe Daryl isn’t a freak.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers to the wind, voice broken from the crying and yelling, “I’m so sorry.”

But that doesn’t mean he’s any less of a monster.

...

Jesus stops coming.

For weeks, there’s nothing of Jesus. Daryl looks in every corner of the woods, every path. He looks and looks and looks, and waits. But there’s nothing: Jesus vanished completely from his life, as if he’d never came at all.

And with him, so do the flowers.

They simply stop, withering away from the moment he first wakes up after that day and never growing again. No dead leaves, no petunias, no rue or bellflower or even yellow roses for his broken heart.

Even when he trashes things around in anger, even when he cries at night. Even when he thinks about the little shit who stole his heart. There’s nothing.

Nothing blooms.

Not a single flower.

It should be freeing. He should be happy, he’s finally normal now. No more flowers to taunt him about feelings he’d rather ignore, no more being a freak. No more curse. It should feel good.

Instead he feels incomplete.

...

The first days are void of everything. When the guilt and self-loathing isn’t killing him slowly, leaving a trail of burn marks on his hand now that he has no flowers to pull, he’s numb. Dead inside.

Then comes the anger, then the despair.

The pain.

Loneliness hurts now that he has to relearn how to get used to it again - now that he finally knows what it’s like to not feel completely alone. But he does.

Slowly, he relearns to be alone.

He gets back to his routine, drowns himself in hunts and traps even managing to go to the city to sell some stuff with no flowers to follow him there. After a few days he stops walking around the woods looking for the other, knowing he likely went to the next town - to the next _curiosity_.

He lost his chance.

Not by being a freak like he had feared, but by being something worse: a Dixon. And Dixons destroy everything they touch, cursed by their own nature and the cycle of it.

And Jesus ain’t ever coming back.

...

But he does.

Jesus has the annoying, _utterly endearing_ , habit of always coming back.

He surprises him again when, as Daryl’s coming back to his cabin with a deer in hands, only to see the other waiting for him sitting at his door. Face calm, with no tellings of what’s in his mind. It takes Daryl a second to gain courage to keep his path.

They don’t say anything as Daryl gets near him and Jesus gets up, just look at each other hesitantly, before the hunter speaks up.

“Thought ya had skipped town.”

“I told you that you wouldn’t get rid of me that easily, Daryl. Didn’t I make that clear?” Jesus tries to joke, though his face and tone is all wrong. He sighs. “I thought about it, but I couldn’t.” The answer doesn’t surprises Daryl, though it hurts all the same. “Did you want me to?”

“No. No, I didn’t.” He looks down, ashamed. “Jesus, I’m—”

The other interrupts: “Paul.”

“Wha’?”

“Call me Paul.”

Daryl nods. “Paul.” It shouldn’t feel so freeing to say that name out loud, so intimate. “I’m sorry, alrigh’? I’m an asshole, I know that. I didn’t—I just—I’m _sorry_. Ya didn’t deserve that, none of it.”

“I know. You didn’t either,” Paul says, making Daryl stare at him confused. “Those words, they didn’t sound like you. It sounded like it was something said to you. I hoped… I hoped it was that, at least, instead of you meaning it.”

“It was. I’m sorry.”

“It’s ok, Daryl. Well, it isn’t, but I get it. I do. I shouldn’t have just kissed you without talking first either, I knew I was pushing you a bit and I still did it. So, I apologize too.”

_What?_ “Nah, ya didn’t do nothing wrong. ‘S me.”

“I did, though. I saw you weren’t ok and ignored it as fear of rejection. That’s on me, Daryl, I should’ve known better. I’m sorry.”

“Yer sorry ya kissed me?” he asks bashful, already thinking the worst.

“No, not at all. I’m sorry we didn’t talk before, and what happened after. Those few weeks were a nightmare, I was always so careful to not get attached and then you just… yeah. But I feel the same, you must know that.”

Daryl stares at him, dumbfounded. _Liked him_ , maybe. He could see that. But loving him?

_“Ain't nobody ever gonna care about you except me, lil’ brother.”_

He can’t see that. It’d be too good for him, too much. _Why would he?_ Daryl waits for the catch as Paul comes near him, cupping his cheek with one hand so close he could feel the man’s breath. _Almost there, almost—_

“Daryl, can I kiss you?”

“Yeah. _Please_.”

That kiss is nothing like their first, now that Daryl had been expecting it. It’s soft and sweet even as they kiss with their whole body, molding into each other. Daryl’s completely lost to the sensation before he feels something on his hand, making him move away slightly, confused.

“I love you too, Daryl,” Paul whispers as Daryl looks at the two small white rainflowers tied together Paul had handed him.

Flowers appear everywhere in an explosion - around the two, in his arms, even on his hair - so suddenly it startled both of them and made Daryl flush red. No bloom had ever been so violent before or so… all over the place. He pulls one to look at, curious.

A small chuckle. “Ambrosia.”

“Interesting flower you got there,” Paul tries to tease, though he looks too awestruck for it to count. “Ambrosia: love is reciprocated. Does that mean you believe me now?”

“Yeah…” He stares at the flowers in his hand - ambrosia and rainflowers, together - and smiles, looking up at Paul as more bloom on his hair, this time red carnations, to help complete the crooked crown there with the others. “I believe ya.”

“You’re adorable,” Jesus says, his laughter filling Daryl’s heart with warmth. “I missed the flowers.”

His answer is almost a whisper, a revelation that only when he says out loud he realizes how true it is. “I did too.”

The other looks at him, still smiling but confused, and plays with the flowers on his hair seemingly pleased at the ridiculous sight. A twinkle of happiness in his eyes that Daryl will forever be grateful to see.

“They stopped, after ya left. No more flowers ‘til now. For the first time in my life, they jus’ stopped.”

“Do you know why?”

_Because my heart went away with you._

“Who gives a shit?” he asks instead, sneaking his arms around Paul as he pulls him closer, face-to-face. “You’re here.”

“I am indeed. What are you going to do about it?”

“This.”

And he closes the gap between them.

...

They kiss and kiss, happiness flooding Daryl as they make love in a bed of orange lilies and roses, desire and love being shared by every touch, every kiss, as they melt together into one. Sensual, and breathless, and awkward, and perfect and _imperfect_. They laugh as a flower or two stabs them a bit, but soon it’s muffled away as their mouths touch again.

Leaving trails with their mouths and fingers, marks to see the next day and just know it was all real.

Know they’re each other’s.

Jesus is on his knees, _and isn’t that ironic_ , as he worships Daryl. His mouth on him as he makes the hunter see stars, each hitched breath and each groan making more and more flowers bloom all over Daryl and around them. Paul doesn’t seem to mind, one hand caressing a rose and the other holds his thigh open, as Daryl loses himself to it.

Though his actions are of a starving man, Paul touches Daryl as if he’s something to adore, as if he’s as precious as the flowers he blooms, treating him in such way he’d never thought anyone ever would: devote.

In love.

“Please,” he begs, his quiet and desperate pleads encouraging the man between his legs. “C’mon, _please_. Fuck!”

Paul winks and moves away slightly so he can tease. “Maybe later!” Making Daryl blush furiously as red as his flowers as his hips hitch forward without his consent, needing more. Needing everything: Paul’s mouth, his touches and his love. And then he’s back at it, mouth driving Daryl insane as he cries for more.

Daryl can’t look away from the man, watching his movements with hunger as he claws at the blankets. “Paul!”

“Tell me what you want, Daryl,” Paul says against soft sensitive skin, his lips touching him just enough to be torture but not enough to give him release. _The fuckin’ prick._ “Come on, love, tell me?”

_For you to stop teasing._

_For you to touch._

_For you to—_

“You!” The groan that leaves him is loud and hoarse, so much that he barely recognizes his own voice drowned in so much lust. “I wan’ you— _fuck_ —please, Paul, I wan’ you!”

He’s taken so deep - _so, so deep,_ \- that for a second he’s not sure if the world stopped or if it’s just him, just the two of them together, and he can’t take it anymore. Bliss hits Daryl as he releases down Paul’s throat and the other just take it, moaning around him happily as he swallows it all to the last drop.

“Goddammit,” he lets out, breathless and with jelly bones. “I—I’ve never—”

“I know. You were perfect. So perfect, Daryl, so good for me.”

They kiss again, slow as if they have all the time in the world, and Daryl can taste himself on Paul’s mouth. He moans, wanting to taste more, wondering if Paul’s would be the same.

Wondering how the two would taste together.

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” one of them whispers to the other, and Daryl doesn’t know anymore which of one of them it is. It might’ve been him, overwhelmed by everything and so damn happy. It likely was.

Or it could be Paul, filling his ears with encouragement and moans to drown out any of the remaining shame inside of him as they move together in a bed filled almost entirely by their bloomed feelings, bright colors against pale and tanned skins.

Either way it’s perfect, it’s _them_.

And he loves every single second of it.

...

They lay there together, utterly exhausted and still speechless from what they’ve done, time seemingly going slow just so they can enjoy their time together and not let it end so soon. Not ready to let it end, wanting to keep the walking-on-clouds feeling alive for a little longer.

There’s tenderness in their touches, there’s love, and even in the afterglow of sex Daryl’s heart can’t help but jump at the thought, entirely too enamoured by it.

“I’m glad you found me.”

Daryl’s back is exposed, history being told through old wounds that Paul can read from where he is caressing him, seemingly paying attention to every single mark before giving it a kiss, as small snowdrops bloom from each scar.

_Hope._

For himself, for the future, for them.

“An’ I’m glad ya didn’t leave me alone, prick.”

* * *

 Fanart by [mister_moonshine](https://www.instagram.com/_mister_moonshine/)

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: Homophobic Slurs, mention of child abuse, mention of homophobia, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, internalized homophobia


	13. Sweet Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little friendly ribbing turns to something more serious.

“First time in Georgia?” the man asked, looking at him with eyes narrowed with enough curiosity he his attempt to downplay with a casual, throw-away tone, seemed obvious to him. No one else was looking their way. Everyone going about their business. The man clearly wanted things to stay that way. To not give anyone a reason to pay them any mind.

He gave a quick nod, just a single bob of his head, as he lifted the sweet tea to his lips and took a long drink. Then answered properly with an equally casual, “Yeah. Just crossed the state line a couple hours ago.” He paused, then smirked and leaned forward, resting his weight on his elbows as he stirred the tea with his straw, “Real lucky you found me when you did. I could have been stuck in that ditch for days.”

The man tensed up and his eyes darted to the side, checking once more for watchers. There were none. Not that he could see. So unless someone behind him was looking their way, it was safe. It took a couple moments for the man to come to the same conclusion, but when he did, he relaxed a fraction and let his lips pull upwards at the edge. Let himself enjoy the flirty way he was being talked to.

“Would've been a damn shame if ya had,” he murmured, voice dropping to nearly inaudible while his cheeks flushed with color. “Pretty thing like you, wasting away in a ditch...”

He sighed and lifted his chin, shrugging slowly. His tone took on an exaggerated southern accent as he misquoted, “I suppose it's true, that one can always rely on the kindness of strangers."

That got a snort out of the man, who fought the urge to keep laughing like a man wrestling with a tiger. And losing much like one would, too.

He grinned and tilted his head, voice and tone returning to normal, “What? Too much?” 

“ _CUT!_ ” the director's shout broke through the air before Daryl could get a hold of himself. At that point he stopped his battle and let himself laugh, one arm curling across his belly as his head came down on the table.

Exasperated sighs met their ears as the other extras started leaning back in their seats. The lead was getting a strong talking too from Gregory and occasionally darting glances back at their booth in curiosity. Gregory only ever gave those sorts of dressing-downs instead of decent direction. Rick had, at one time, been excited to work with the man. But after a week of filming and being told 'you've done this sort of shot before, you should understand it! More emotion!' instead of something that had some sort of tangible usefulness in how he should actually be approaching the dialogue. Stuff like:  less intense, more intense, softer, like his soul just got ripped out, like he has nothing to lose, like he doesn't really care and this is just Tuesday to him. That would have been useful.

Still, Gregory was the director and Rick kept his response as polite as possible until the man was done talking. He called for a ten minute break and a reset. Walked off, probably to have a drink, and left everyone to do their jobs or wait.

Rick rubbed at his nose and headed for them. Daryl had his arm extended for one of their friendly handshakes. The two were close and Daryl often got cameos in one of Rick's films and vice versa.

“I just don't understand it,” Rick grumbled as they broke contact and Daryl slid to the side for Rick to sit down next to him. “He's made twelve, _incredible_ films. Gotten awards for half of them. And he's just... he gives me nothing? Does he just... How?”

“It mostly comes down to editing,” Jesus answered, pushing the colored water that passed for sweat tea away from himself. “He has a really good team of editors and they work hard in post. Some of them have been wanting to break away for a while, but the last few films, the ones he's gotten awards for, he's had Maggie running the team. And none of the guys want to leave her. She's _good_.”

“I know she's good,” Rick answered, not at all mollified, “I've seen her work before. But it was with other directors. Better directors. What the hell did he do to get her to stay this long? And if she's got her thumb on all that, why ain't she the one out here telling me what to do and not him? What does he got on her?”

“She's a woman in hollywood, Rick,” Daryl broke in, gruff and upset. “And she's got two kids and make 'em a priority. You know how that goes. He pays her well, though. Least that's what Glenn says. And you know he'd kick anyone's ass if the didn't.”

“She does have a really good contract,” Jesus agreed. “I was surprised he said yes to it. She basically has creative control over everything once it enters the editing room. He gets to play at director and she gets to do the rest.” He shrugged, grimaced, then leaned forward, “But, uh, if you're looking for advice on how to sell this scene, I'd go with wide-eyed bewilderment and then a quiet, soft delivery of your 'I know. Of course I know.' before doing something to try and hide your pain.”

“You sure that'd work? He keeps telling me to put more emotion into it. Figure he must want it to be louder and more outrageous.”

“Oh, he definitely wants you to go over the top with it. But the other way will give Maggie something to work with. So do it that way once, try to get it as good as you can before he calls cut, then afterwards, go for broke.”

Daryl leaned into his friend's shoulder, “He's been working with Gregory for two years. I'd listen to 'im.”

“Says the man who threatens to shoot an arrow into the ass of any director that doesn't like how he's doing things,” Rick rolled his eyes and elbowed Daryl off of him.

“Ya can take the redneck out of the backwoods but ya can't take the backwoods outta the redneck.”

“So what were ya two laughing at while I was getting treated to Grade-A asshole?”

“Gone with the Wind,” Jesus answered with a completely straight face, making Daryl spit his drink out with the laughter he failed to choke back. Jesus looked at him, playing innocent. “Did I or did I not just quote the film before he called cut?”

Daryl nodded, grinning and chuckling, “Ya did, ya did.”

Rick looked between them a couple times, taking a few seconds as his mind worked through the reactions he was seeing before letting out a long-suffering sigh, “You two were role-playing again. This is why I don't invite Jesus to my sets anymore. You get together and all you can do is flirt and eye-fuck each other. Get a damn room. Go away.”

“Can't when yer crowdin' the booth,” Daryl shot back – just as straight-faced as Jesus had been moments before. “'Sides, you get into the same problems with Michonne when yer on my sets.”

“She's my _wife_.”

Jesus gasped and sat up, faux-excitement shaking through his shoulders, “So you think Daryl and I should get married? Rick! That's a wonderful idea!” He turned his head to look at Daryl and shot his hand out to take the other man's, “Daryl! Let's get married! Right now! Rick can be our best man!”

Daryl wrapped his fingers into Jesus' and sat up straight, shook his head, “Nah. If we're getting' married, we gotta do it right. Full proposal. Down on one knee. Fireworks in the background. And then all the bells and whistles.”

Rick stood up, rubbing his eyes, “I'm not staying here.”

“Oh! Rick! You should throw us both bachelor's parties!” Jesus called after him, getting a middle finger in return.

They stayed where they were, laughing, fingers entwined, until Gregory finally returned and called the set back to action.

Jesus turned to Daryl and pulled his 'sweet tea' back in front of himself, idly stirring at it with the straw. Daryl let his head duck down, one arm on the table, the other on his knee, as he gazed at Jesus through shaggy hair.

Jesus smirked at him, waiting. It was Daryl's turn to start the game and pick the scenario for the take. Daryl bit at his lower lip and tilted his head. He looked a little shy.

“Do ya?” he asked eventually, tone too soft to carry beyond their table.

Jesus's brows wrinkled and he tried to keep a pleasant smile on his face for the sake of the cameras that would catch them, “Do I what?”

“Wanna get married? I mean... I ain't really a ring guy so it's not like we gotta wear 'em or nothin'... but you're the only one I been seein' for a while now.” He fell silent and Jesus stared, blinking, mind blanking a bit. A few seconds later he continued with, “For the last three years, I mean. I ain't... had no one else. Just you. For the few weeks here and there we've gotten to see each other. I know you've had a few. And I don't mind. Hell, I don't really mind if you wanna keep goin' with 'em. If you'd rather not have it be public or nothin'. I know you like a lot of people, and I looked into it. You know, polyamory. It's a thing and if ya are, it's... I'll be okay with it...”

He took a deep breath and reached out to take Jesus' hand again, lifted his head to meet his eyes, “But I want you. To be with you. However you'll have me. And if you'll have me in marriage, I'd like that very much.”

Jesus knew his mouth had gone slack. He'd felt it, just somehow lost the energy or mental acuity to pull it closed. He didn't answer. Couldn't form the words. Daryl stared at him for so long and eventually, when 'cut' was called again, he made to pull his hand away, nodding. Clearly thinking the answer was obvious in the stare.

Jesus' fingers tightened around his as he realized that. He panicked and slammed his free hand on the table, gasping out a frightened, “Yes!” scared of Daryl walking away and leaving him.

Daryl looked like he'd been shot and was only just feeling the pain. He gulped hard, a little confused, a lot unsure, “Yeah?”

Jesus nodded his head like crazy, heart beating a mile a minute, completely terrified, “Yeah. Yeah. I do.”

“You uh... you don't really look it,” Daryl replied. “You look more like you wanna run and puke in the toilet.”

“I wanna do that, too,” Jesus admitted. “But I don't want to run from _you_. It's just... a lot to take in at once.”

Daryl stared at him for a very long time and Jesus could only stare back, waiting, before Daryl nodded his head, “Okay.”

Jesus grinned. He grinned and pulled their joined hands to his lips to press a kiss there.

As the next take got started and they moved back to their positions, he stirred his sweet tea. The mechanic who'd saved him from a ditch in the road looked up at him from under his hair, meeting his eyes with clear interest. He licked his lips and leaned forward, “So how much do you think it'll take to get my car fixed, mister?”

The man let his gaze rake over him, as if he were undressing him on the spot, “Couple hundred at least.”

“That's so much. I just moved to the state and I don't have a job yet. Is there any other way I could pay you? Some... free labor around the shop?”

The mechanic reached under the table and squeezed his knee, “Depends on what kind of labor you got in mind.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been informed the quote I attributed to "gone with the wind' is actually from "A Streetcar Named Desire". The same actress said the lines, just in different movies. I got them confused. Sorry.


	14. a home within myself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a couple of friendless loners meet in high school in small town Georgia
> 
> A Few Notes:  
> 1\. Title is from "Leash" by Pearl Jam, which is just kind of a perfect song all around for this story.  
> 2\. The pics on this post were my inspiration for high school-era Paul and Daryl: https://merrymerricat.tumblr.com/post/166756377673/this-is-how-i-pictured-daryl-and-paul-in-my-high  
> 3\. The entire whooping crane assignment/ordeal is lifted verbatim from my life but with my friend Susan in the part of Paul. She didn't like it when we weren't given structure/rules/guidelines for assignments.  
> 4\. Mr Mariner was my 3rd grade teacher.  
> 5\. I hope I did right in dealing with Daryl's abusive home life; it was nerve-wracking to write about it and I considered scrapping that whole angle altogether. Hope it's okay.  
> 6\. There were literally 3 Chads in my grade in high school. All were on the football team, all were complete assholes.

 

Paul stared into his locker as if it held the secrets to surviving high school. And in a way, it did, because if he didn't turn around, he didn't have to face his new school. There was a flaw in this plan, though.

The warning bell sounded and Paul muttered to himself “And there it is” before grabbing his books and finally shutting the locker.

He slowly shuffled down the hall, keeping his head down, letting his hair fall into his eyes. He caught a few people looking at him disdainfully, but for the most part everyone ignored him. He ducked inside his classroom and headed straight for the back row, sliding into the desk nearest the wall.

As the math teacher welcomed the class to the new school year, Paul looked around at the other kids he’d be spending his senior year with. By and large, they looked the same as the kids at the other two high schools he’d attended. Until he got to the next seat over from himself. The scowl on the other boy’s face should have been off-putting but Paul thought it was sexy as hell. The boy’s sandy hair had a perfectly mussed, bed head look, and the sleeveless t-shirt he wore showed toned biceps. The boy looked over just in time to see Paul's mouth hanging open slightly. Paul snapped his mouth shut immediately but the boy still glared at him.

Paul reminded himself that was exactly why he'd had to change schools again, and kept his eyes down for the rest of the class.

***

By lunchtime, Paul had managed to stay under everyone's radar and was glad for it. He’d be happy if everyone ignored him for the rest of the year. Sure, it would be lonely but it would also be safer. And if you don't have any friends then you have no one to betray you.

The cafeteria was too crowded for him to get a table all to himself.  He’d have to share with some other loner or a group of misfits. After rejecting a few possible tables, he spotted the scowly boy from math class at a table by himself; he was doodling in a notebook, eyes fixed on the page, ignoring the noisy room around him.  Paul’s brain immediately started chanting “bad idea, bad idea,” even as he made his way over to the boy’s table.

“Okay if I sit here?” Paul asked casually (he hoped) while sitting down.

“Looks like you already did.”  

“Yeah, I guess so...sorry?” Paul decided to take the boy’s lack of reaction as permission to stay, and started pulling his lunch out of his backpack.  “My name’s Paul.  Yours?” The boy squinted at him suspiciously. “S’not a trick question or anything...just curious,” Paul mumbled nervously.

“Daryl.”

Paul nodded, wondering what the hell he could say next.  He pulled a Granny Smith apple out of his bag and couldn’t help a groan of disgust.  “Seriously, again?”  He held the apple out to Daryl.  “You want this?”

Immediately Daryl’s eyes flashed with anger.  He quickly gathered his things and snarled “They put you up to this?  Try it again and I’ll kick your ass!”  He stalked out of the cafeteria glaring at everyone he passed.

“It’s...just an apple?” Paul said to himself at his now empty table.

***

It turned out Paul had two more classes with Daryl and in each of them he glared daggers at Paul for most of the class.  

On the long walk home Paul tried to figure out what he had done wrong with Daryl.  It seemed like he thought Paul was pulling a prank on him but he couldn’t think what kind of prank involved offering someone an apple.

He was only a couple of blocks from home when Daryl came around the corner a few feet away from him.  He froze in surprise but Daryl stormed up to him and started yelling.  “Did you follow me? Did they tell you where I live?  You just don’t know when to give up, do you?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Paul finally blurted.  “I didn’t follow you and I don’t know where you live.”

“Then what the hell are you doing here?”

“Walking home? I live two blocks that way.” Paul gestured to the right.

“Bullshit,” Daryl spat. “There’s nothing on that block but that halfway house for delinquents.”

“It’s a group home,” Paul said through clenched teeth. “And we’re not _all_ delinquents.”

Daryl took a step back in surprise. “I thought…”

“What? What did you think? Please, tell me! I have no idea why an apple offended you so much!”

Daryl fidgeted for a moment, biting his thumbnail and avoiding Paul’s stare. “Thought you was giving me charity,” he mumbled.

“I don’t understand…”

Daryl growled in frustration. “Everyone knows how poor my family is and they make fun of me, trying to give me stuff.”

“Well, I wasn’t doing that. I hate Granny Smith apples but the group home’s cook keeps putting them in my lunch. They don’t exactly do special requests, but I told them not to bother putting them in, it’s just a waste. That’s all.”

Daryl looked uncertain. “Nobody told you about me?”

“Nobody told me anything; they hardly even looked at me. You are literally the only person I talked to today who wasn’t a teacher.”

“Okay, fine, I believe you, I guess.”

“Thanks. Why don’t _you_ tell me about you?”  Paul looked down when Daryl narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “Y’know, in case someone talks to me about you...I’ll know what’s true...or something.”

Daryl just shook his head and walked away. Paul watched him walk off, berating himself again for trying to get close to someone.

***

Paul spent the rest of the week avoiding everyone at school--including Daryl, who tossed him a few curious looks, like he was expecting Paul to talk to him.  

Paul resisted, with difficulty. He had one last class with Daryl to get through before the weekend, and they didn’t even sit near each other for it.

Halfway through the biology class, Mr Mariner lost his patience with the constant whispering and note-passing between the more popular kids.  “I can see now letting you choose your own seats for the year was a huge mistake. I’m moving everyone, _now_.”

Paul muttered “Seriously?” to himself when he ended up in his new seat to find himself right behind Daryl. It got even better when the teacher announced these would be their seats for the rest of the year, and then paired everyone off to do a project on a subject of their choosing that would be presented to the class in one week. Paul of course was paired with Daryl because that was his luck. They were given the rest of the class to start planning.

Daryl twisted around in his seat and watched Paul expectantly.  

“What?” Paul said a little testily.

“You wanna pick a subject?”

“I don’t care, you pick something.”

“No way. You can do the work and I’ll just copy off you.”

Paul scowled. “You can’t copy off me, it’s a project we’re supposed to do together and then present in front of the stupid class, it’s not like homework we’re handing in.”

The tips of Daryl’s ears turned red and he scoffed. “Whatever, I don’t care.”

“I don’t even really know what we’re supposed to do here. Just pick any damn subject in the world and talk about it?”

“Basically,” Mr Mariner said from behind Paul.

Paul wasn’t one to try to piss off his teachers but he was mad his plan of avoiding Daryl (and everyone else) had been ruined, so he couldn’t help the sarcasm when he said “Fine, how about, um...the whooping crane? Sound good?”

The teacher chose to ignore Paul’s attitude and said “Sure, there you go. That’s your subject,” before moving on.

Daryl’s jaw dropped. “What the hell, man? The whooping crane?”

“It was the first thing that came to mind!”

“Then what the fuck is wrong with your mind?”

“Well, you didn’t come up with anything!”

“I coulda come up with something better than a dumb bird.”

“Then you should have spoken up, instead of leaving it to me,” Paul snarled.  

“What’s with you?” Daryl asked quietly.

“Nothing.”

“ _Something_ ’s wrong…”

“You don’t really know me enough to say that.”

Daryl’s face went from concerned to stony. “You’re right. Fine. You do the stupid whooping crane project and I’ll stand next to you while you present it.” He turned in his seat to face the front of the room again.

Paul momentarily forgot that he was trying to stay away from Daryl and squealed “What?! No way, I’m not doing all the work!” The last bell of the day rang and Paul gathered his books. “You’re coming with me to the library right now to look up the fucking whooping crane.”

Daryl snorted and started to walk away so Paul grabbed his arm.  Daryl flinched but didn’t pull his arm away. Recognition immediately dawned on Paul and he quickly let go of Daryl’s arm. He pretended he hadn’t noticed anything and said “Come on, we’re going to the library. Don’t make me chase you.”

***

Daryl had grudgingly come to the library but didn’t volunteer much help. Paul finally made him take notes on the information he found and read out loud, telling himself he was just determined not to do all the work himself and wasn’t secretly delighted to be spending more time with Daryl. “So, I’ll talk first about their size and diet and habitat, and then you can talk about how they became endangered and the efforts to bring the population back. Mariner better let us know how long we’re supposed to talk for. Don’t even know if this is enough information.”

“What more is there to say about this fucking bird? I think you managed to pick the most boring subject in the world.”

“Thanks again.”

“Seriously, he said we could pick anything and you picked a bird too stupid to not get endangered.”

“Hey, it couldn’t be about _anything_ , it had to be related to biology somehow.”

“Still. It’s a fucking bird, man.”

“And what would you have picked, huh? Tits? Pussy?” Paul said nastily.

Daryl’s face turned scarlet and he muttered “Fuck you, man.”

“Sorry.”

“You don’t know me either, you know. But you sure make a lot of assumptions about me.”

Paul eyed Daryl shrewdly. This redneck-in-training couldn’t possibly be saying what Paul thought he was saying. “Maybe I have…” He lowered his voice and looked up through his eyelashes, “You wanna correct any of my assumptions?”

This time Daryl turned white as a sheet and stood up, grabbing his stuff. “I’ll see you Monday.” He practically ran out of the library.

“Fuck.” Paul said aloud to the empty room. He’d found out enough about Daryl now to know that he was totally gay, totally closeted, and a total mess.

***

Paul spent his weekend debating what to do about Daryl. Stick with his original plan and avoid him as much as possible? Try to be a good friend to him as he was obviously confused and conflicted? Or solve his confusion by kissing him? The last option was the most appealing but also the most dangerous. Not only would it risk getting him kicked out of another school, but this was small(ish) town Georgia, an area not known for its tolerance. Hell, even Daryl might react with violence to a kiss from a boy, even though Paul would bet his life the guy was gay as the day is long.

On Sunday afternoon, Paul glanced out the front window of the group home and saw a boy who looked suspiciously like Daryl across the street, pacing and smoking. He occasionally glanced at the home or half-hid behind a bush. Paul’s shoulders sagged with the realization that he couldn’t ignore the poor guy. He knew Daryl didn’t have a great home life; he’d been able to read all the signs easily. Paul decided he had to try being a friend to him, and pushed open the front door.

As Paul crossed the street, he could see the urge to flee in Daryl’s eyes and called out “Please don’t bolt. Let’s not do that.” Daryl scowled in response and Paul grinned.

“What are you doing out here?” Daryl snarled.

“You’re kidding, right? _You’re_ the one that’s been lurking around outside _my_ home. I should be asking you what you’re doing out here. But I don’t have to, I already know.”

That really seemed to piss Daryl off. “Oh, you’re so fucking smart, huh? You know everything and I’m just some dumb hick. You don’t know me, remember?”

“Actually, I do.” Paul held Daryl’s gaze steadily. “And you know it,” he said meaningfully. He gestured to the overgrown vacant lot behind Daryl. “Let’s take a walk.” He started off, trusting that Daryl would follow, but he still let out a relieved sigh when he heard Daryl shuffle up beside him. “I’m gonna go out on a limb here, Daryl, and I want you to think-- _really_ think--about how much I’m trusting you right now. Don’t automatically lash out, just stop and think, okay?” Daryl nodded uncertainly.  “So here it is. I’m gay. And so are you.” Daryl’s head jerked up and his eyes flashed but Paul held up a hand before he could say anything. “I’m trusting you, remember? I know you could just get angry and kick my ass right now and _then_ spread the news all over school, but I’m trusting you not to because I think you need someone to talk to who understands exactly how you feel.”

Daryl kept quiet for an uncomfortably long time. Finally, he just shrugged and said nothing. Paul thought that was promising enough to continue. “I’m counting on you to keep my secret, and I’ll keep yours. And I mean I’m really counting on you, because I’ve been screwed over by friends before.” Daryl looked up sharply. “Yeah, it’s why I had to leave my last school in Atlanta and they moved me out here. My so-called friend decided to trade my secret to get popular and I started getting bullied, getting into fights. Of course I was the only one who got expelled,” he said bitterly. “But I really can’t get kicked out of another school, so please don’t tell.”

“I won’t,” Daryl whispered after a moment.

“Good. Thanks. I decided to just keep to myself here, not have any friends, and get through my last stupid year of school, but thanks to you…” He smiled at Daryl, “that plan’s gone to shit.”

“Hey, I didn’t say _I_ was a fag,” Daryl said hastily. “I just said I’d keep _your_ secret.”

“Really?” Paul sighed. “Do we have to do this? I know you’re gay, I just do. You must’ve heard of gaydar, right? It’s a real thing.” He cackled evilly, and Daryl looked genuinely frightened. “No, don’t be scared, I’m joking. I mean, it’s kind of a real thing, sometimes you can just tell and don’t even know why, but it’s not like...an actual superpower or something.”

“Why would that even be considered a superpower? Would be an awfully boring comic.”

“Hey! You’re making jokes! See, getting more comfortable with it already!” Daryl immediately seemed to tense up. “Okay, okay, I see just about everything is too much too soon for you. We don’t have to talk about it, I just wanted you to know that I know, and that I understand what you’re feeling _if_ you want to talk about it.”

Daryl said “thanks” so quietly Paul wasn’t even sure he had heard it.

***

They had spent the rest of the afternoon walking around and talking about nothing much--certainly not about being gay--but Paul felt it actually went a long way toward putting Daryl at ease with him.

On Monday, they actually sat together for lunch at school. Paul was in the middle of a sentence when Daryl suddenly burst out, “What are ya lookin’ at?”

Paul followed Daryl’s gaze to the next table where some of the popular kids were smirking. He rolled his eyes. “Ignore them.”

“They’re staring at us!”

“So?”

“They’re probably talkin’ about us,” Daryl said through clenched teeth.

“That’s pretty sad. You’d think they’d have better things to talk about than the poor kid and the delinquent.” Daryl looked at Paul sharply. “What? It’s true, that’s who we are. I don’t know how, but somehow the kids at every school I’ve ever been to find out that I live in a group home, or a foster home. And they find it out fast. And then they’re either dicks to me or they ignore me. I kinda got over it years ago. Why do you still care?”

“I dunno. I hate that they think they’re better than me.”

“They’re not,” Paul said simply. “Just remember that whenever they piss you off. That they’re wrong. And they’re talking about you instead of their own pathetic little lives.” Daryl was staring at Paul, astonished. “What?”

“It’s that easy for you? To just not care?”

“Guess so. But like I said, just keep reminding yourself that they’re wrong and eventually you won’t care either.” Paul moved his chair so that he blocked Daryl’s view of the other table. “That should help.”  

Daryl actually smiled at that.

***

They walked home together after school on Wednesday. It turned out Daryl took a slightly different route than Paul usually did in order to avoid most of the other kids from school. Daryl was telling Paul about his big brother, Merle, and was more animated than Paul had ever seen him. Merle was in the Marines and obviously a source of pride for Daryl.  

“Who knows, maybe I’ll join when I’m eighteen. Not like I got any other plans. Can give high school the finger and join the army.”

“Actually, you need to have your high school diploma to join any branch of the US military.”

“You do? Shit.” Daryl looked crestfallen.

“Yup. I’ve met recruiters before; they like to come to group homes to pitch their propaganda. Part of our esteemed army’s policy of recruiting kids who are poor and desperate.”

“Thanks, asshole.” Daryl sounded more hurt than angry.

“Come on, you know I’m in the same boat. I know it bugs you when I say stuff like that but I can’t help it, I’m realistic about my position in this world.”

“Yeah, well, being realistic often comes off like being an asshole.”

“Well, sure, to a dreamer like you--”

“What the fuck? I’m not some dreamer, the hell’s wrong with you?”

Paul grinned. “You are so! You refuse to acknowledge and accept the realities of your life. I think that makes you a dreamer.”

“Well, I think that makes you a nutcase.”

“I don’t disagree,” Paul said with a laugh.

“And I ain’t stupid; I know the realities of my life, or whatever,” Daryl said quietly. “Just don’t like to talk about that stuff.”

Paul decided to take a chance. “Like your dad?”

Daryl’s face immediately clouded over. “Dunno what you’re talkin’ about.”

“I’m talking about your dad hitting you,” Paul said with a sigh. “I--”

Daryl shoved Paul against the chain link fence they were walking by. “You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, you get me?”

Paul remained calm. “I know exactly what I’m talking about, Daryl, you think I haven’t been there, too?” Daryl released his grip on Paul in surprise. “Yeah, sometimes foster homes are exactly like the horrible ones you see in the movies. That’s how I know. It wasn’t hard to read the signs all over you.”

“What damn signs?”

“Your hostility, the way your eyes are always darting around, always on edge, always watching out for an attack,” Paul recited grimly. “But mostly from the way you flinched when I grabbed your arm. Like you’re used to every touch being a punch and you’re used to just taking it and not fighting back.”

“You can’t tell anyone. Tell me you won’t tell anyone,” Daryl urged. “If you tell, they’ll take me away and--”

“Put you in a home for delinquents?” Paul rolled his eyes.

“Sorry. But you just said, you said some homes are just as bad.”

“I know, it’s true. If I was certain they would put you in the same home as me, I’d tell someone right away, it’s a pretty good place. But who knows where you’d get sent?” Paul had been wrestling with whether or not to tell someone about the abuse since Friday. He wanted to get Daryl away from it, but he couldn’t shake his memories of the bad homes he’d been in, and that made him hesitate. He hadn’t seen Daryl with any visible bruises or looking like he was in pain, so he had kept quiet so far.

“Good. Promise me you won’t tell anyone.”

“Can’t do that.”

“Paul!--”

“I won’t tell anyone _for now_. But if it gets worse, if he hurts you really bad, I won’t have a choice. Okay?”

Daryl looked uncertain. “It’s not even a big deal, you know--”

“Yeah. It is,” Paul said firmly. “It’s wrong for him to hit you, and you don’t deserve it. And I hope you know that. But if you don’t, I’ll keep telling you that.” Daryl nodded reluctantly. “And I can help you stay out of his way. We can hang out after school, and on weekends. We’re not allowed to bring friends inside the group home, but we do have that lovely vacant lot across the street. Whenever you’re not in school we’ll make sure you’re not at home.”

“What if he asks where I’ve been?”

“Tell him you got a month of detention.”

Daryl snorted. “He’ll definitely buy that.”

“We just gotta get through this year,” Paul said softly. “We can do it together--but _only_ together. Yeah?”

Daryl didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. ‘Kay.”

***

“I hate this,” Daryl grumbled, one leg shaking incessantly.

“I know, it's pure sadism, making teenagers do oral presentations,” Paul whispered back. “Don't teachers remember what torture this is?”

“‘Course they do, that's why they make _us_ do it. It's revenge.”

“But _we_ didn't do anything to them!”

“Doesn't matter, man. When you're old and bitter, you just want anyone to suffer.”

“Old? I think Mariner’s only 30.”

“Yeah, old.”

Paul shook his head. “I hope I never get bitter like that.”

“Next up is Paul and Daryl,” Mr Mariner announced, “to tell us all about the whooping crane.”

Paul walked to the front of the class, Daryl shuffling behind him. He cleared his throat and began, “The whooping crane is the tallest bird in North America and got its name from the whooping sound it actually makes.” He tried not to sound too bored or too nervous, but Daryl's nervousness was practically radiating from him and Paul couldn't help feeling anxious because of it. He snuck a glance and found Daryl’s eyes darting around the room, glaring at anyone who dared to smirk or snicker. Paul rushed through the rest of his part, wanting to get Daryl back to his seat before he lost his temper. He nodded encouragingly at Daryl to start his part of the presentation.

“The whooping crane is believed to be naturally rare..” Daryl mumbled.

“Can't hear ya,” drawled one of the football players in the front row (Paul thought his name might be Chad but there were literally like three or four Chads on the team).

Daryl looked an inch away from murder so Paul said under his breath, “Just keep going.”

“But it became endangered because of over-hunting and the destruction of their habitat,” Daryl continued, a little louder but no less angrily. He managed to finish the presentation with the help of Paul clearing his throat or murmuring to him whenever he looked ready to lunge at someone.

“Thanks, boys, good job,” Mr Mariner said.

“Yeah, it's always nice when losers find each other and make friends,” smirked the possible Chad.

Paul immediately threw his hands against Daryl’s chest, holding him back and muttering “Not worth it, not worth it.”

“Chad, keep quiet,” Mr Mariner said sternly. “Daryl, sit down.”

Paul steered Daryl back to their seats and quickly reassured him in a low voice, “It's done, it's over, you can relax now.” Daryl looked at him incredulously. “ _Yes_ , relax. It doesn't matter what he said. It's over, and we’ll get a good mark.” Daryl's breathing returned to something close to normal. “Think of it this way: if you don't lash out at the jerks, you won't get suspended and have to be at home during the day,” he said pointedly. He knew Daryl’s dad had been laid off from his temporary construction job and was spending most days at home.

Daryl finally nodded, resigned. “I know. Thanks for stopping me.”

***

Paul waited until the walk home to let his triumph bubble over.

“We made it!” He skipped happily for a few seconds before Daryl grabbed him by the backpack, stopping him. “We made it through the week, we never have to think about that stupid bird ever again, and it's all thanks to me!” Paul beamed at Daryl, who snorted.

“How do ya figure? It's your fault we had the stupid bird as a subject.”

“Yes, but I did keep you from blowing up during the presentation! That's pretty amazing. Turns out I’m good at wranglin’ Daryls.”

“You didn't wrangle nothin’.”

“Yeah, I did. I could get a job as a Daryl-keeper. Have my own zoo full of Daryls!”

“Stop,” Daryl said without much force. His ears were turning pink.

“On second thought, we could do our next presentation on you,” Paul teased, bumping Daryl’s shoulder with his own. “You’re a very endangered species ‘cause you’re one of a kind!” Paul giggled and leaned close to Daryl before stopping abruptly. He had been about to plant a kiss on Daryl. Out in public. On his friend. His friend who hadn't even admitted he was gay yet. Paul pulled back hastily but Daryl seemed to sense what Paul had been about to do and quickly scanned the street to make sure no one was watching them.

“Um...race you to the vacant lot?” Paul took off running, hoping to escape the awkward moment.

***

“Ugh, why does everyone make such a big deal out of Homecoming?” Daryl ripped a poster for the Homecoming Dance off the wall and started balling it up.

“I know, I don't get it either. It just seems like an arbitrary celebration. If they made a big deal out of Halloween, with a big game and dance, I could understand that.”

“Halloween’s dumb, man.”

Paul gasped. “Tell me you're joking.”

“What? Sure, it's fun when you're little and can get free candy but after that, what's the point?”

“It's a holiday dedicated to spookiness! And you can dress up as anything you want!”

Daryl scoffed. “Dressing up’s for kids.”

“ _No_ , it's for everyone. You can't tell me you don't want to be someone else for a day.”

“It's pointless. One day ain't gonna change how things are.”

“But it gives you hope that things will change someday. And it's _fun_.”

“Hey, Dixon, is Rovia your date for the dance?” Chad called from across the hall, his cronies snickering.

“But I’m _your_ date, Chad,” Paul quickly cut in. “Remember? You said if I kept our blowjobs a secret you’d take me.” He pulled Daryl down the hall before Chad could formulate a comeback.

“The fuck you doin’?” Daryl seethed. “You just told him you’re gay!”

“Not really. His buddies are all laughing, they’re assuming I’m joking.”

“Chad isn’t, he looks pissed as hell.” Daryl flipped the bird to the group of jocks before turning back around. “Man, he might come lookin’ to kick your ass.”

“Yeah,” Paul sighed. “But at least I made it more than a month without getting in a fight. I just hope he attacks off of school grounds; they usually don’t expel you in that case.”

“Well, I hope his fuckin’ leg gets snapped in the Homecoming game. That asshole deserves it.”

“Assholes rarely get what they deserve.”

“Y’know, I thought _I_ was pretty pessimistic but then I met you.” Daryl grinned.

“Realist, not pessimist! I think things can definitely get better for us once we’re out of this hellhole, but I’m fully aware that the world is unfair and ruled by evil.”

“ _How_ is that not pessimistic?!”

***

Paul threw his cards down and leaned over to light the camping lantern. “I give up, man, I’m not playing anymore.” They were spending Homecoming evening in the vacant lot, in a spot they had made their own by propping up old planks to hide them from the street and finding old crates to use as table and chairs.

Daryl cackled. “You fall for my poker face every time, man.”

“Poker face? It’s your regular face, man! You give nothing away, you’re so hard to read!”

Daryl laughed again and flopped onto the legless old couch they had dragged over from a dumpster a few blocks away. “Well, you should try being more like me then; those enormous fuckin’ cartoon baby eyes give you away all the damn time.”

Paul sat down next to him and widened his eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Now they’re the size of dinner plates. Big fuckin’ googly girly eyes.”

“Oh please, if these eyes were on a girl you wouldn’t find them attractive at all.” Paul laughed but quickly stopped when he realized Daryl had gone all quiet and serious. They hadn’t exchanged a word about Daryl being gay since Paul had first brought it up. Whenever he slipped up and made some joke or comment about it, he quickly changed the subject. This time, however, he didn’t feel like covering it up. He missed being himself and talking about boys with someone. “Okay, horrendous personalities aside, which football player is most doable?” Daryl kept silent but his face rapidly turned red. “I’m thinking Josh Freeman,” Paul continued blithely. “He’s small and wiry and I prefer that to real beefcake-y guys.” Daryl started chewing on a fingernail. “And I know I said personalities aside, but he _is_ probably the least douchey guy on the entire team. But that’s just my opinion, what do you think?” When Daryl kept quiet, Paul gave him a nudge with his elbow.

“What?” Daryl said evenly.

“Please talk about boys with me?” Paul whined in his most pitiful voice. Daryl shook his head. “Why not?”

“Not interested in those guys,” Daryl mumbled.

“But there _is_ someone you’re interested in?” Paul said excitedly. “That’s great. I’d love to hear all about it.” He was instantly jealous of the boy in question, but kept his smile on. He knew Daryl needed his support. Daryl just shook his head again. “Is he straight? And it’s bumming you out? Because I gotta tell you, you’re gonna have to get used to that kind of heartbreak, it’s part of the gay life.”

“Keep quiet!”

“No one can hear us here, we sound tested it. Relax. Talk to me, I’m here for you. I’m your gay Yoda.”

“You’re such a fucking nerd.”

“Whatever, _you_ understood the reference. Tell me about this boy, it’ll make you feel better.”

“Can’t.”

“Why not?”

“If I can’t tell you who it is, I definitely can’t tell you why not!” Daryl spat.

“Really? Why not?” Paul asked innocently.

“Because he’s got big googly eyes and he’s you, dumbass!” Daryl scrambled off the couch and stormed off.

After a stunned moment, Paul followed. “Are you serious?” Daryl just kept walking so Paul got in front of him, careful not to touch. “Daryl, c’mon, talk to me, did you mean that?”

Daryl refused to meet Paul’s eyes. “Just...just get this over with and tell me I’ve fucked everything up.”

“What?”

“Tell me I’ve fucked up my first real friendship with a stupid crush!”

“You didn’t!”

Daryl finally looked at Paul. “Are you messin’ with me?”

“Never,” Paul said firmly. “Daryl...do you know how many times I’ve almost kissed you? How many times I’ve reached out to grab your hand before stopping myself? And then I’m horrified that I almost did something like that right out in public! And I’m usually more careful than that but that’s what you do to me! You make me forget about the rest of the world.” He swallowed a lump in his throat and prayed Daryl wouldn’t bolt. He didn’t look like he would. His eyes were searching Paul’s desperately, like they were some kind of polygraph that would show if he was telling the truth or not. The results must’ve been good because he reached out and tentatively touched his fingers to Paul’s.

“Paul, I…”

Daryl’s eyes suddenly looked over Paul’s shoulder with alarm and he snatched his hand back. Paul turned to see Chad and about four of his buddies approaching rapidly with flashlights. He tried to back away but Chad was on him immediately, grabbing the collar of Paul’s jacket.

“Payback time, faggot.” He headbutted Paul and shoved him to the ground.

Before Paul’s vision could even clear, Chad delivered a right hook and then a kick to his side. Paul thought he should’ve known Chad would bring backup for his revenge. If Chad was alone, Paul would’ve fought back; he’d taken enough of the free karate classes for poor kids to be able to defend himself pretty well. But with four henchmen there to back him up, Paul knew he’d get hurt way worse if he fought back. Not only would it enrage Chad even more, his friends would feel the need to join in to make sure their leader didn’t lose face. Paul resigned himself to taking the beating, absorbing the blows the best he could.

“Whatcha starin’ at, Dixon? Got something you wanna say? Wanna help your fag friend here?”

Paul couldn’t really see Daryl through his blurred vision, but he definitely heard him running away. He breathed a sigh of relief even as his heart was breaking.

***

Even though Paul hadn’t fought back, Chad had just about done his worst. He blacked out for a few minutes and woke up to find a blonde girl he recognized from the group home crouched over him. He thought her name was Andrea.

She helped get him back to the home where the night caretaker immediately took him to the hospital, despite his protests. She insisted it was policy for any injury worse than a bumped elbow; they weren’t trained to assess illness or wounds. A cut on his cheekbone needed stitches (because of Chad’s stupid class ring), X-rays showed cracked ribs, and he had minor internal bleeding. They kept him until the next afternoon to monitor the bleeding (which stopped on its own, thankfully, sparing him surgery) and to see if he had a concussion (nope).

When he got home, Andrea explained that she had seen “those meatheads beating up some poor sap” in the vacant lot and started screaming at them until they ran. She kept him company while he was confined to his bed to rest. She turned out to be awesome: cynical and sarcastic in the best possible ways, with a take-no-shit attitude. Paul thought he could bend his “don’t make friends” rule one more time.

“So they were kicking your ass for being gay, right?” She asked bluntly.

“What...what makes you say that?”

“Because they were yelling ‘faggot!’ while they were kicking you.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah. No one ever said jocks were wordsmiths.”

“True.”

“So that boy you’re always hanging out with, is that your boyfriend?”

Paul felt himself blush, a rare occurrence. “No, he’s just my friend.”

“Yeah, uh-huh, sure.”

“Really!”

“Sure, sure.”

Paul sighed. “It could’ve maybe been more, but...probably not after this.”

“Why? He too chicken for it?”

“Uh yeah, and who could blame him? After seeing my savage beating?”

“Wait, he was there? And he didn’t help you??” Andrea was getting heated.

“No, he didn’t help me, and I’m _glad_ he didn’t. There were five of them, he just would’ve gotten his ass kicked too.”

“Hmm, true.  Except... _I_ still charged in when there was five of them. And hey, I’m ‘just’ a girl.” She smirked and rolled her eyes.

“That’s true...why on earth did you do that, that was really dangerous!”

“Because it was the right thing to do,” she said simply.

***

Paul was allowed to go back to school on Wednesday. He was both excited and scared to see Daryl. He had no idea how Daryl was going to behave now, given his confession of a crush and then the jock’s revenge. He also had no idea how Chad and the other jocks were going to behave. Paul had sworn up and down to the social workers that he didn’t see who had attacked him, and while Andrea definitely would’ve named names if she could, she’d said she “couldn’t pick those ‘roided-up gorillas out of a lineup.” Hopefully the lack of consequences would mean they’d leave him alone; it had happened that way before to Paul. But he had also seen bullies get even higher on themselves from not getting in trouble and ramp up the bullying.

Paul found Daryl at his locker before first period. He hadn’t thought at all about what to say, so when Daryl’s eyes widened at Paul’s bruises and stitches, he blurted, “You should see the other guy!” Daryl recoiled at the lame joke. “I mean....he looks fine ‘cause I didn’t fight back, but...he’s a real dick, though…you should see him. Wait, you’ve probably already seen him...”

“Yeah, he made a few cracks about kicking my faggot friend’s ass,” Daryl said in a low voice. He refused to meet Paul’s eyes while he pulled out a couple of books and shut his locker.

“Well…” Paul didn’t have a clue what to say next. “I survived, so...it’s okay.  I mean, not _okay_ , Chad’s still an evil piece of shit, but I’m gonna be fine.”

“Fine? You look like hell!”

“Looks worse than it is, trust me.”

“Whatever,” Daryl muttered and headed off to math class.

Paul caught up with him. “So what’d I miss?”

Daryl stopped abruptly. “Are you fuckin’ kidding me?”

“What?”

“Why are you even talking to me? You should hate me! I ran off and left you there!”

Paul sighed. “I’m not mad, I don’t blame you for doing that. I’d hate it if you got hurt because of me--”

“Shut up,” Daryl hissed, eyes darting around the hall. “Don’t say shit like that. In fact, don’t say _anything_ to me anymore, okay?” He started walking again.

Paul caught up again, a knot forming in his stomach. “Daryl, listen, I--”

“No, you listen.” Daryl finally met his eyes, with the defensive glare he had worn that first day Paul laid eyes on him. “Don’t talk to me. I mean it, this is done. We’re not friends, okay? Just leave me alone, and I’ll do the same for you. It’s what you wanted in the first place.”

“But I realize now how stupid that idea was--”

“No, it’s not, it’s the smartest thing to do. If you’d stuck to it in the first place, you wouldn’t look like a damn punching bag right now. Just stay away from me, Paul.” Daryl walked off down the hall at a pace too quick for Paul to follow without causing screaming pain in his ribs.

Paul leaned himself gently against the nearest wall to take a breath. That’s when he noticed Chad across the hall, watching him. Paul met his eyes calmly, but without challenge, and made sure he was first to break the stare and head off to class.

***

Paul tried to talk to Daryl a few more times that day, but Daryl was good at dodging him, especially since he couldn't run because of his injuries.

Andrea caught up with Paul after school in the vacant lot. “So how’d it go?” She sat down on the dusty old couch next to him.

“It didn't.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Yeah. He said he didn't wanna be friends anymore, it's too dangerous.”

She scoffed. “Only for you.”

“Yeah, he feels bad about running away--”

“He _should_.”

“Andrea--”

“A guy who’ll run away when you're in danger is no kind of guy to be with!”

“I don't care about that!”

“Yes, you do. You can't tell me at least part of you wasn't hurt by that.”

“Alright, yes, part of me was hurt. But I'm really not mad at him for leaving, and I get why he did it.”

“Yeah, because he's a coward.”

“Andrea, no. It's...he’s...he’s not used to fighting back...like, in his everyday life..” Paul silently willed Andrea to get what he was trying to tell her. He didn't want to betray Daryl's trust and tell her outright about his abuse, but he knew she'd been in the system a long time and might get what he was hinting at.

She did.

“Ohhhh...so it makes sense that he would freeze up and then just run.” She sighed. “Alright, I guess he's not a total lost cause then. He could still be boyfriend material.”

Paul barked out a laugh. “I’m just trying to get him to be my friend again! I'm pretty sure he's now further in the closet than ever before.”

“I’ll admit, the possibility of a romantic ending is slim, but it's still there. Even though he's as messed up as we are. I mean, really, it kind of makes you two suited for each other.” Paul looked at her incredulously. “Come on, could you imagine dating some preppy kid from a loving family that's never had anything in his life go wrong?” Paul couldn't help chuckling at the thought. “I know, right? Blech. You and Daryl understand each other, at least.”

“I _thought_ we did.” He pulled his collar up against the brisk wind and leaned against Andrea. “But I have no idea what to do now.”

***

Daryl kept up the avoidance game, and so Paul only saw him in class where Daryl studiously ignored him. Until one morning about two weeks after Paul’s attack. He saw Daryl at his locker before first period and paused to watch him.

Daryl’s movements were slow and deliberate, and Paul saw him pause and close his eyes a couple of times. He decided to try approaching him, but Daryl saw him coming, slammed his locker, and walked away stiffly, but quickly. Paul had seen him wince in pain, though, as he turned away.

“Shit,” Paul muttered to himself. He had no choice now.

***

So it turns out the Department of Family & Children Services don't take requests. The social worker Paul reported Daryl's abuse to dryly informed him that she couldn't place Daryl in the same group home just because Paul really really wanted it.

“He’ll probably be put with a foster family,” Andrea said. “It's his first time in the system, they find it's an easier transition for newbies.”

“God, I just hope it's a good one.”

“Yeah,” she agreed softly. “It would be awful to go from one bad environment to another.” Paul groaned and rubbed his face. “But you still did the right thing by reporting it! At least now he has a _chance_ of a good home. He didn't before.”

“I know. I just have to keep reminding myself of that. Especially since reporting it probably ended any chance of us ever being friends again.”

“Hey, if he's as good a guy as you say, he'll eventually realize this was a good thing and that you were right to do it.”

“Yeah, but...how long is ‘eventually’?”

***

Daryl was away from school for a couple of days, but when he returned, Paul didn't need to worry about Daryl avoiding him.

Daryl stormed up to Paul at his locker and growled “How could you?”

“Simple,” Paul said evenly. “I care about you.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “A lot.”

Daryl backed away. “Bullshit.”

“You could hardly walk, it was obvious you were in pain.”

“I was fine! I’ve had worse.”

“All the more reason for me to make that call.”

“I could handle it!”

“But you shouldn't have to!” Paul stepped closer again. “You don't deserve it, Daryl. Did I deserve that beating from Chad?”

Daryl nostrils flared. “Of course not!”

“Then why do you?”

Daryl dodged that question. “Everyone's talkin’ about me now!”

“Why do you care?!” Paul exploded. “Seriously! These people are assholes, you’ve said so yourself! No matter what you do, good or bad, they'll still gossip about you. Let it go!”

“Everyone knows my damn business! Everyone thinks I’m some weak ass bitch!”

“I guarantee you _no_ _one_ thinks that. I bet even Chad and his jock squad don't think that.”

“I don't like everyone knowin’ my business!” Daryl's face was flushed and his eyes were shiny with unshed tears. “And I don't like people I can't trust!”

Paul didn't really have a defence for that, so he just watched Daryl storm away.

***

The morning of Halloween, Paul debated even bothering to dress up. Daryl still wasn't speaking to him and it had left him really depressed. He would catch himself watching Daryl longingly during class, and he didn't even care who saw it.

“You’re dressing up, nerd,” Andrea said sternly. “We worked hard on perfecting that makeup! You're doing it. You have to show him that you're okay without him.”

“But I'm not!”

“That doesn't matter! All that matters is that you _look_ like you're doing fine and like you don't need him at all!”

“Ugh, no, Andrea,” Paul groaned. “I hate mind games. But I will dress up because we worked really hard on it.”

When Paul slid into his seat in math class, even Daryl couldn't help staring at him.

“Do you like it?” Paul ventured.

“You're...what, a zombie or somethin’?”

“Yup.” He was pretty proud of what he and Andrea had accomplished by mixing up fake blood in the kitchen and borrowing makeup from the girls in the home. His face looked like the flesh on one cheek had been torn away. “Andrea helped me with it.”

“That blonde girl I see you talkin’ to?”

“Yeah.”

“You guys best friends now or somethin’?”

“Well...I kinda lost my only other friend.” Daryl's expression darkened and he looked away. Paul sighed. “I still don't regret reporting your dad, but I hope the home they put you in is nice.”

After a minute, Daryl quietly said, “It is.”

“Really?”

He nodded. “Yeah. They’re nice. There's another foster kid there. She kinda clings to me.”

Paul smiled. “What's her name?”

“Sophia. She's 11.”

“I’m glad. I'm _really_ glad, Daryl. You deserve a good home.”

Daryl looked like he was about to say something else, but just then the teacher entered and the final bell rang. Paul still felt more hopeful than he had in weeks.

***

Paul was about halfway home after school when he heard a voice behind him.

“Nice costume, fag.”

He turned to find Chad approaching--alone for once, and sighed inwardly. “What do you want?”

“Oh, I just wanted to compliment you on your costume,” Chad smirked.

“Fine, sure.” Paul turned to start walking again, but Chad grabbed his shoulder and spun him back around. “Seriously? You wanna do this again?”

“Why didn’t you tell anyone? You think you’re gonna blackmail me or something?”

“What? No. I just don’t want any trouble. So let’s keep it that way, alright?”

“You think you could make trouble for me?” He shoved Paul.

“The fuck you think you’re doin’?” Daryl quickly stormed up to them.

“Get out of here, Dixon,” Chad sneered. “You’re good at that.”

Daryl punched Chad in the face in a lightning-fast move. The jock was so surprised he lost his footing and fell. Daryl kicked him in the side a couple of times before Paul stopped him. “Wait, this is better.” He kicked Chad in the balls. “Painful, but won’t do any major damage, see?”

Daryl grinned at Paul, then knelt down to grab Chad by the hair. “This is over, fucker. You leave him _and_ me alone from now on or we’ll do a lot worse.” He glanced at Paul and winked. “We’re delinquents, see? We’re poor and parentless and unhinged and capable of worse than you could ever dream.” He tossed Chad’s head down and stood up, putting his arm around Paul and steering him away.

“Thanks,” Paul said breathlessly. “I mean...you didn’t have to do that. I was prepared to fight back since it was one-on-one. But I’m not mad that you stepped in! You just...didn’t have to.”

“Yes, I did.” Daryl stopped and faced Paul. “I shouldn’t have run the last time. So I’m glad I was here this time.”

“Why _were_ you here this time? You don’t still live in this neighborhood, do you?”

Daryl blushed. “I’ve been, um...following you home each day. Not in a creepy way! Just to make sure you’re okay. I’ve seen Chad throw you some looks and talk some shit about you with his buddies so I was afraid he would go after you again. Why isn’t your blonde friend walking with you?”

Paul raised an eyebrow. “Because the presence of a teenage girl is enough to drive away a bully? I mean...technically, it did work once. But she’s only a few credits shy of graduating so she only has classes in the morning.”

“Glad I was watching then.”

“Yeah, you’re my hero.” Paul smiled and bit his lip.

“Shut up.”

“No, I mean it, you’re my knight in shining armour!”

Daryl rolled his eyes. “Jerk.”

“Does this mean you’ll be my friend again?” Paul said hopefully.

“Yeah.” Daryl blushed again and looked down. “Or more? I mean, I get it if you don’t feel the same way anymore, after everything, but--”

Paul curled his fingers in Daryl’s coat and pulled him close. Daryl glanced around nervously but didn’t resist. “I’m going to kiss you now, ‘kay?” Paul whispered. Daryl hesitated for a moment, but then gave a small nod. Paul closed the distance between them and pressed his lips softly to Daryl’s, only for a couple of seconds before pulling away. He was fine with starting slow. It had taken long enough for them to get here.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: abuse, child abuse referenced but not explicitly shown, bullying, violence (teenagers beating up other teenagers), homophobia, homophobic slurs


	15. Jitters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daryl meets a new barista at his usual coffeeshop. He's a keeper.

 

Daryl should have been off work hours ago. The sweat dripped down his body despite the cool autumn air. Construction work was not for the faint of heart. He had helped to build an entire garage today and he still had at least four hours of projects he needed to complete at home before he collapsed face first, exhausted, into his bed. This was the norm for him. But fuck it, he needed the money. His goal was to start his own construction company, and he knew he could get there in another year or so. In the meantime, it meant working himself to the point of extreme burnout. However, Daryl felt he didn't have much of a choice at this point. He was about to turn 26 for fuck's sake! He needed to get his shit together and built a future now that he had finally found enough sense to stop following his older brother around.  
  
Merle had his own pile of problems. Drugs, petty crime, and casual sex with disreputable partners leading to recurring STIs. Daryl loved the man, but he couldn't handle watching him repeat the same mistakes over and over again. They grew up in a small town not far from Atlanta. The ignorant racism and bigotry there was almost impressive. The actual stupidity of the residents was even more alarming. After Merle ODed again and had to be hospitalized, and a stupid friend of theirs brought him a card saying "better luck next time" with the two of them dissolving into giggles, Daryl had truly had enough.  
  
He screamed himself something hoarse at Merle about being done with his shit, with his way. He declared he was leaving Georgia and going to do something with his life. Merle laughed of course, he didn't take Daryl seriously over it. But Daryl had left that very night. He packed up his few belongings along with a few thousand dollars he had saved from doing odd jobs and kept hidden away to keep Merle from spending it all on blow, hopped the nearest freight train north, and was in Virginia a few days later.  
  
Eight months had passed since then. Merle had never come looking for him but Daryl had called him a few times, letting his brother know he was okay and wishing the same for him. Merle was usually in a bit of a stupor and didn't seem to care a whole lot, but Daryl could always detect the relief in his voice when he'd pick up and hear his baby brother on the other end of the line.  
  
Daryl's days and nights consisted of working and sleeping, but mainly working. He showered whenever he started to smell himself and he ate whenever he had more than five minutes to shovel food into his mouth. He kept a shithole apartment just so that he had a place to go at night. The bedroom, kitchen, and living space were all one small room. There was a separate bathroom, just large enough to fit a toilet and standing shower stall. No sink, that was in the kitchen. It wasn't the most pleasant living experience, but it was perfect for a man trying to save money for a better future. He even had a pet.  
  
A couple of weeks after he moved into the ground floor efficiency, he noticed a tiny kitten sitting outside of the only window he had. She was mostly grey with tabby stripes, but had patches of orange and cream in random places on her body. She chirped like a tiny bird, so Daryl took her in and named her Wren. Every night when he would fall into his lumpy mattress to doze for a few hours, Wren would immediately make herself at home on his back, purring like and engine and kneading her tiny paws against him. All these months later, and Rennie was anything but tiny. She was a fucking fifteen pound menace to be perfectly frank. But she still, without fail, curled next to Daryl each night and slept with him. She was the only girl he ever wanted to sleep with, that was for sure.  
  
Tonight, like most other nights, Daryl made his way to the coffee shop near his place. _Jitters_. He would stop, gulp down anything containing a few shots of espresso, go home, work on blueprints or projects, and sleep. He was much later today than usual, a new guy made a few wrong cuts that cost them at least two hours. He needed an extra large drink after all of that. Daryl hoped that Rennie wouldn't be too angry with him over her late supper.  
  
You’re later than usual,” Tara remarked. Daryl gave her the look he tended to give most nights anymore. She nodded. "One Wake-Me-Up-Mocha coming right up."  
  
Tara owned Jitters and was almost always the person who waited on Daryl. They had a pretty small staff; the perks of a tiny business. There was Tara, who had a wide smile and an offbeat sense of humor. A little awkward but always cool, Tara was one of those people you felt privileged to call a friend.  
  
Rosita was Tara's girlfriend and did more complaining than actual work most of the time. She made a mean macchiato but was usually more concerned with her latest cause and expressing (read:yelling) about it to anyone who would listen. She was absolutely head over heels for Tara though, and the laid back woman always helped to calm Rosita down.  
  
Eugene did the bookkeeping and stocked the supplies. He was a genius but also a little savant like. Daryl guessed he was mildly autistic. He obsessed over a few things and wasn't hesitant to make it known that he was by far the smartest many in any room. Eugene also liked to speak in his own odd language made up of non-existent idioms. But he was a comfort to have around. Never obtrusive, just a solid presence in the background. Usually, that was in a literal sense. Daryl rarely saw him in the front half of the shop.  
  
It was only those three. Until that night, apparently.  
  
As Tara took Daryl's money (she always undercharged him due to his frequency) and made change, Daryl turned at the sound of laughter to his left. It was loud and obnoxious, made by a girl no older than eighteen, blonde hair flipping as she waiting for her drink order.  
  
“What's a guy like you doing working in a place like this? You should be on a runway or something," she said, fluttering her eyelashes embarrassingly and leaning deeply against the counter. Cleavage, Daryl realized, rolling his eyes. She was clearly trying to get the attention of the man in front of her as he passed over her drink order.  
  
The man smiled and nodded at the blonde, obviously placating her. He didn't seem very interested, if Daryl was honest with himself. But that wasn't what caught his attention. The man was new. Daryl came here all the time, practically daily, and had been coming for almost the whole eight months he had lived here. This guy was new. Daryl's eyes narrowed.  
  
The man was shorter than Daryl by at least a few inches and pretty small. He was well muscled but very lean, his long light brown hair falling a few inches past his shoulders and shiny under the lighting of the shop. He had a beard too, full and thick, the same shade as his hair. His eyes were huge and an indistinguishable aqua color. His smile was adorable, and that beard did nothing to hide how full his lips were. Daryl swallowed.  
  
Tara seemed to notice Daryl staring for she elbowed him. He flicked his glance in her direction and spoke quietly as the blonde girl continued to hit on the new man. “Who is that?" he asked, gesturing toward him. Tara smiled, and there seemed to be something knowing in it. Daryl ignored it.  
  
“People call him Jesus," she said, waving in his general direction before beginning to stack clean cups. “He started here a few weeks ago. Good guy. Very popular with the regulars.”  
  
“What makes you think he's popular?” Daryl's eyes were back on this Jesus fellow, tracking him like he would prey he hunted. Jesus handed the young woman her drink, pulling his hand away fairly quickly when she brushed his fingers with her own. “You said he only started a few weeks ago. And how come I haven't met him yet?”  
  
Tara rolled her eyes dramatically. "I'm here all the damn time is how. This is my life's work and passion." Her voice softened. "The reason you haven't met him yet is because he's always working nights and you usually don't come later than 2 in the afternoon," she explained. “His real name is Paul Rovia. Rosita had a couple of classes with him at George Washington U. Human Sexuality and Gender Studies I believe." Tara smiled conspiratorially. "Rosita said he had an affair with the prof there. Alex something. Alex tried to fail Paul when he broke it off. Ended up getting fired. _Huge_ scandal."  
  
Daryl's eyebrows raised in interest. This Paul, Jesus, whoever, seemed like quite a character. Suddenly, his attention was drawn back to him and the blonde. She was the laughing obnoxiously in response to something Paul had said. He seemed more uncomfortable than anything, but was still acting sweet as can be, smiling and nodding. "I think you're right about the popular thing," Daryl remarked to Tara. She nodded.  
  
“Yep. He is majoring in philosophy with a minor in yoga therapy." A laugh burst out of Daryl. That was wholly unsurprising looking at the little hipster in front of him. Tara continued, "He's also really into all different sorts of martial arts. He teaches classes 20 hours a week when he's not here. He's small, but he could kick your ass." Daryl snorted. Tara looked at him, eyes serious. "Oh, try him. I dare you." He cleared his throat. Tara looked back toward Paul. "Not to mention the fact that he's single and naturally pretty flirtatious. Most of our customers leave here thinking that he wants to get with them.”  
  
Daryl bit his lip, looking between Tara face and poor Paul, still being chatted up by the blonde. “Why do they think that?" he asked. Tara laughed with a shake of her head. She started making Daryl's five shot mocha and called toward the man a few feet away.  
  
“Hey, Jesus!" Tara called with a wink in Daryl's direction. He forced himself not to duck his head. Paul turned toward her immediately, clearly looking for an out from the situation he'd found himself in. "Come and meet my friend."  
  
Daryl looked at Tara in disbelief, but he pulled himself together as Paul approached them. He really was ridiculously good-looking.  
  
"Jesus,” Tara gave her version of an evil smile and put a hand on Daryl's shoulder. "This is my friend, Daryl. He's a construction worker saving up to open his own business. He's a regular, just usually here before you come in."  
  
Paul's eyes lit up and his face broke out into an absolutely maddening smile. Daryl's stomach twisted into immediate knots. "Hi, there," he said, holding out a hand for Daryl to shake. He grasped the offered hand and hoped his palm wasn't sweating too profusely. Paul's eyes took in Daryl's own like he was trying to drown the other man. His gaze dropped to Daryl's mouth and he licked his own lips. Daryl's brain repeated a mantra of _don't get a boner don't get a boner don't get a boner_ which was a pretty terrifying and real possibility right now.  
  
“Maybe you should start work a little later so I can see you here more?” Paul asked with a wink. Daryl could feel his face betraying him as he smiled in spite of himself. This time Daryl _did_ duck his head, trying to hide his face behind his overly long bangs. He could feel Tara's eyes on him and didn't even have to guess at her expression.  
  
"So, you wanna open a business? In construction, I assume?" Daryl forced himself to meet Paul's gaze. That was a mistake. _Who the fuck looks like that in real life?_ he thought. He cleared his throat. "At first, yeah. But I got other plans down the road. Thinkin' about a hunting and trapping business. Maybe selling stuff to use, maybe offering services. I know a lot about critters." _Oh my God stop talking, you sound like an idiot!  
  
_ Daryl realized he was a redneck who sounded like a redneck and was currently talking about redneck things, but Paul's blue-green eyes showed nothing but interest.  
  
Paul smiled. "I think that’s excellent. You've got ambition and you know what you're good at and also what interests you. I still haven't decided on that for myself," he shrugged.  
  
Daryl blushed helplessly and Paul's smile grew at the sight. Tara was looking between them now, a growing suspicion and amusement on her face. Daryl minutely shook his head. _Don't ruin this for me._ He knew he was hopeless but this man was gorgeous and charming and seemed at least a little interested.  
  
Before he could continue the conversation further, his phone alarm went off, reminding him to go home and feed Rennie. He sighed. "I better go."  
  
“Girlfriend to get home to?" Paul asked, looking more curious than was probably normal for an almost total stranger.  
  
Daryl laughed. "Um, kinda? I gotta feed my cat. She gets freakishly dramatic when I'm late on her feedings. Don't come near me for days on end and gives me looks to make me feel guilty." Paul bit his lip and dropped his gaze with a giggle. Daryl felt a sudden spark of bravery and continued. "I'm not into girls, actually." Oh, my God did he actually just say that? Merle'd have his head if he were here.  
  
Paul's cheeks were shaded a lovely shade of pink and he kept glancing at his shoes as he said, "Do you have a boyfriend?"  
  
Daryl shook his head no and said "But I do like guys." _Shut up, dumbass!_ The momentary silence was deafening in the tiny cafe. Both he and Paul seemed like they wanted to speak more but weren't sure what to say. Before either could continue however, Tara burst in front of them with Daryl's drink. "Here's your Wake-Me-Up Mocha, man. Go feed your cat." Daryl almost spilled the drink when she passed it over, he was so keyed up.  
  
"Thanks. See ya tomorrow," he managed.  
  
Paul perked up. "What time tomorrow?"  
  
"Um, depends. Start early so usually I'm done by 1 or 2, but sometimes not till 5."  
  
Paul looked at Daryl from under his eyelashes- _under his eyelashes!_ \- and answered, "Well, maybe I’ll see you soon.  It was nice meeting you."  
  
"Yeah. You, too." Daryl felt supremely stupid as he gave a little wave and practically sprinted out the door and toward his hovel a couple of blocks away. The twin expressions of Tara and Paul watching him leave was stamped into his mind. They both looked a bit giddy, and Tara a bit mischievous, but he did his best to forget it as he arrived home to a furious Rennie. She cried angrily as he filled her bowls and batted his hand as punishment.  
  
"Yeah, yeah, I know," Daryl said, scratching behind her ears in apology. She began purring immediately and rubbed her face against him. He supposed he was forgiven- for now.  
  
*********************************************  
  
The following day, Daryl's work happened to run late again. This had absolutely nothing to do with Daryl coming up with incorrect measurements, but nevertheless, at 5:30, the bell on the door of Jitters jingled as he entered. Paul locked eyes with him immediately and visibly perked up. Tara and Rosita saw him too, Tara waving and Rosita giving her usual ambivalent nod.  
  
The girls came over to take his drink order. "Camel Hump is on special today," Rosita said in a bored voice. _Caramel, Hazelnut, Tiramisu_ , Daryl remembered. He may have drunk entirely too much coffee here. “Sounds good, and make it a large." Rosita nodded brusquely and signaled Paul.  
  
"Camel Hump coming up," he said with a wink in Daryl's direction. Daryl tried not to blush and failed miserably. "So, why late again today?” Paul asked as the milk steamed.  
  
"Miscalculated some shit and it screwed up the blueprints. Took a couple extra hours to figure everything out." Daryl clenched his jaw, almost daring Paul to call him stupid or make fun of him, but the man only nodded sympathetically. "Been there," he said. "Not with that, specifically, but in a college chemistry course. Everything has to be so exact. Make one little mistake and it ruins the entire experiment." He poured the espresso and milk into a cup and began mixing in the flavors.  
  
"You good at that?" Daryl asked, and Paul looked at him questioningly. "Science, I mean."  
  
Paul's face broke into a charming smile. "I'm okay at science. But _chemistry_ is where I really excel." There was heat and promise in his eyes and it lit up Daryl's insides.  
  
"Gonna sit down now. Got some stuff to work on." _You awkward redneck._  
  
There was no disappointment in Paul's face, however. "Sounds good. I'll bring your drink in a minute." Daryl nodded and walked briskly to a corner booth, pulling out his phone and opening a mobile architecture app. He wasn't even sure why he was staying. Usually he would get his coffee to go, but something about Paul's handsome face and warm smile...he wasn't quite ready to leave yet.  
  
Speaking of, Paul had sidled up to the booth with a large steaming mug and set it down in front of Daryl. The moment he looked, Daryl felt his face heat and his pants tighten. The latte had a camel drawn into the topping foam. A heart decorated the inside of the hump.  
  
"Did you do this?" Daryl asked stupidly. _Of course he did, dumbass, who else?_ Paul gave a little chuckle. "Yeah. It's a bit of a hobby of mine. I can't do anything too complicated or artistic, but simple little shapes I can manage."  
  
"S'good. Real good. Um, thanks."  
  
"You're welcome. Mind if I sit down for a few? I'm on break."  
  
Daryl looked around, certain that Paul must be joking. He wanted to sit down and spend time with _him_? But Tara and Rosita were helping an elderly couple and other than that, the café was deserted. He cleared his throat. "Why not? Ain't gonna stop you." He took a gulp of too-hot coffee and coughed at the burn.  
  
"You okay?" Paul said, his face holding nothing but amusement.  
  
"Yeah, fine."  
  
"You've got a little..."  
  
“What?”  
  
Paul reached across the table and swiped his thumb across Daryl's upper lip, cleaning the foam that had gathered there. The air was sucked suddenly from Daryl's lungs. He was definitely about to die. Then Paul put the foamy thumb inside his own mouth and sucked and Daryl wasn't sure how he thought he was going to die _before_ because _now_ he was truly on the verge.  
  
Their eyes locked across the table and they stared in silence for a good ten seconds, Paul's thumb _still_ in his mouth and Daryl breathing heavily as his dick strained against his zipper. Good think his lap was below a table. Then Paul pulled his thumb out with a little pop and grinned and Daryl felt halfway normal again. Dick was still at full mast though.  
  
"How old are you?" Paul asked. Well, that was a sudden change in subject.  
  
"I'll be 26 at the end of the month. You?"  
  
"Just turned 22. I'll graduate from GWU this year. What's your middle name?"  
  
"Don't got one."  
  
"Wait, really?"  
  
"Yeah, really. What's yours?"  
  
"Michael. Mom never could decide between the Beatles and the Stones."  
  
"Wait, what?"  
  
Paul shook his head and laughed. "Nothing."  
  
"What's with all the questions?"  
  
"Just wanted to know you a little more." Paul smiled as he stood up. "I better get back to work. Rosita is giving me the stink eye."  
  
"How can you tell?" Daryl deadpanned, and Paul barked out a laugh. Pleasure curled in Daryl's stomach and his heart gave a flutter. _Uh-oh_.  
  
"Finish your drink before it gets cold. Hope I see you again soon, Daryl." Paul's fingers brushed the back of Daryl's hand where he was gripping the mug and then he was headed back to the counter again, both girls looking between the two of them and Tara immediately pulling Paul to the storeroom, undoubtedly to give him the third degree. Rosita just rolled her eyes but couldn't hide the smirk on her face. Neither could Daryl.  
  
*********************************************  
  
The following day Daryl finished work by one in the afternoon, mainly because it started raining. He went home, ate lunch, took a nap, cuddled with Rennie, and thought about Paul. There was absolutely no pretense anymore. He was going back to Jitters today, and he was purposefully waiting until he knew Paul would be there to do it.  
  
"What do you think Wren?" he asked the purring ball on his lap after he'd relayed the story of his first two encounters with Paul. "Think he might like me?" She gave a chirping meow which Daryl counted as an affirmative. "Yeah me too," he said, rubbing Rennie's belly as she stretched onto her back lazily.  
  
At 3 o'clock, Daryl figured Paul might have just arrived to work, but it seemed too desperate to show up right away. He watched television. At 4 o'clock, Daryl knew most of the local college kids showed up after their last classes of the day. He cleaned his toilet and shower. At 5 o'clock he knew it would be busy with people stopping for an after work pick-me-up. He laid in bed. Finally, when the clock said 5:59 and Rennie gave a warning meow, Daryl got up. He fed the spoiled little spaz and put his leather jacket on.  
  
It was a nice night so Daryl decided to take the bike out for a quick spin before going to Jitters. He cruised for twenty minutes or so and arrived just as Paul was walking out. He practically dumped his bike in his haste to get off and talk to Paul, but the man was waiting for him anyway, a pleased smile on his face.  
  
"If it isn't Daryl no-middle-name Dixon." Paul was wearing jeans so tight they were probably illegal in some countries and a loose fitting tee shirt that had a picture of a cat wearing sunglasses on it. Good god he was such a fuckin' hipster. And he looked good enough to eat.  
  
"Shit man, didn't know you'd be leavin'."  
  
"Slow night. But if you're here for some coffee, I'm glad to make you a cup."  
  
Daryl took a deep breath and blurted, "I mean the coffee is great but...I'm really just here for you."  
  
Paul stepped forward. "Is that so?"  
  
Daryl nodded. "Yes. Still would love some coffee. Throat is suddenly kinda dry," which earned him a laugh, "but really just wanna sit and talk with ya."  
  
Paul took another step. "How about this?" He reached out and traced his fingertips along Daryl's stomach, making arousal slam into his gut instantly. "I'll make us both a cup of coffee. Then we sit and talk. Then you let me ride. Your bike, of course," he said with a wink.  
  
"'Kay." _God dammit Dixon, use your words!_ "I mean...that sounds good."  
  
Paul nodded and held out his hand. Daryl took it. "Let's go."  
  
They entered the café together, and this time sitting at the corner booth held a lot more weight. Clearly Daryl wasn't the only one picking up on the tension, since Rosita and Tara both looked at them with wide eyes and immediately headed toward the storeroom, dragging a curious Eugene with them.  
  
"Pick your poison, Gorgeous," Paul called out.

 

"Snowy Day," Daryl answered, the combination of vanilla, white chocolate, and cinnamon exactly what he wanted at that moment.  


"Good choice."  
  
Daryl sat, both excited and terrified as Paul fixed their drinks. This was actually happening. A really cute guy was actually into him for whatever reason. He didn't quite understand it, but he sure as hell wasn't about to complain.  
  
A few minutes later, Paul brought the mugs over and set them down. He hadn't decorated his own in any way. But in Daryl's, the letters "XOXO" inside of a heart were clearly visible. His face immediately felt hot and he felt the sudden urge to hide.  
  
Paul, the little shit, noticed. "Hey," he said, laying his hand over Daryl's. "I'm not trying to freak you out or make you uncomfortable. I just…I really like you. I know we just met, but there's something about you. I feel something. I thought maybe you do too."  


Oh God, did he ever. It happened the very moment he first looked at Paul. Daryl grew up without any role models or idea of what love should be like. He had sex with women because Merle pressured him to and men because he wanted to but it was always something that he kept hidden because of his family and where he lived. Moving to Alexandria had liberated him quite a bit. Becoming friends with Tara and her crew had helped him realize he had lived in a cage of his own making and it didn't need to continue.  


He had gone on a few dates with guys and had sex a time or two, but he still never felt that intangible thing that other people seemed to know about it. "When it happens, you'll know," Tara would always say. When he looked at Paul that first day, it happened. And now, he _knew_. That was way too much to say to Paul this soon, but he could at least give a positive answer.  
  
"Yeah, I do. I feel somethin'. I wanna be around you is all." Daryl stared at the swirling symbols of hugs and kisses in the mug he grasped. "I wanna...date you."  
  
Paul looked like the cat who got the canary at that. He obviously had been waiting for Daryl to say something to that effect. "Good. We're on the same page. Now drink your coffee."  
  
Daryl did, he and Paul exchanging heated glances across the table every few seconds while Paul kept up a steady stream of get-to-know-each other questions. At some point, the remaining coffee in their cup grew cold as Paul told a story about burning off his eyebrows in chem and Daryl laughed so hard he almost pissed himself. Daryl talked about Merle a little and his hopes that his brother would still get his shit together someday.  
  
They were talking about music when Daryl suddenly felt Paul's socked foot snaking up his leg. _What happened to his shoe?_ was all he had time to think before Paul was rubbing his cock through his jeans. Daryl let his head fall forward and gripped the table as Paul teased him, getting him good and stiff but never delivering the friction Daryl really needed.  
  
"Fuck, Jesus Christ," he groaned.  
  
Paul's voice was throaty when he answered, "I prefer you call me by my given name."  
  
Daryl looked at him intensely and shoved his foot away. "Get your damn shoes back on, we need to go right now."  
  
"Oh _hell_ yes," Paul said as his eyes visibly dilated. "Let me come home with you."  
  
"I live in a shithole."  
  
"Don't care."  
  
"Got a cat."  
  
"Love cats."  
  
"Small bed."  
  
"Good. I'm a cuddler."  
  
Daryl nodded and grabbed the smaller man around the waist. "I wanna kiss you."  
  
Instead of answering, Paul closed the distance between them with a moan. Daryl had never been kissed like that before. Paul's lips were soft and his tongue did filthy things in Daryl's mouth. He could only imagine what it would be like around his cock. They sucked and licked at each others' mouths for a few minutes, each getting harder inside of their pants before Paul finally broke the kiss with a gasp.  
  
"Please," he whined, actually _whined_ , and Daryl was done for then and there. He would do anything for this man. He was such a fuckin' goner. "I need you."  
  
Daryl picked Paul up bridal style and ran out the door toward his bike. Paul giggled, not seeming to mind being carried at all. Daryl filed that information away for later. They hopped on the bike and were at Daryl's efficiency in less than three minutes.  
  
Paul grabbed Daryl's hand and dragged him to the door, which was pretty fuckin' funny considering he didn't have the key to get in. The moment they got inside, Daryl slammed Paul back against the door and started sucking at his mouth and neck.  
  
"Yes, Daryl, yes, please."  
  
Daryl answered by interlocking hands with Paul and holding them above his head while he ground against him. He was rewarded by Paul shuddering and thrusting at the air, pliant but needy. Daryl switched from the interlocked hands to holding both of Paul's wrists in his one hand. Paul made like he was straining against Daryl's pinning, but he clearly loved being submissive in this way. Daryl used his now free hand to massage Paul's cock through his pants.  
  
Paul gasped and writhed, his body movements limited from having his hands restrained and body pinned. "Yes, Daryl, unnhh, touch me, touch me, please yes," and oh my god, Paul was desperate to come with just a little bit of effort on Daryl's part. _He really wants you, idiot._  
  
Daryl placed his thigh between Paul's own and pressed it against his dick. Daryl could already see a little patch of wetness through Paul's jeans. They were so tight they couldn't possibly be comfortable with him so achingly hard.  


Daryl released Paul's hands and undid his jeans. Paul looked completely fucking wrecked; eyes black, face flushed, hair a mess, balls high and tight, cock straining and leaking drop after drop of precome.  
  
"Did you mean what you said about riding me?" He whispered into Paul's ear. The man shivered in response and Daryl could feel him nod. "Please let me, please just let me," he was babbling now, desperate. Daryl had never felt more alive. Jesus Christ was this what love felt like? Sharp and unrelenting and perfect? _Fuck_.  
  
Before he could ponder too deeply, however, Paul pushed him toward the corner and onto his bed. Rennie meowed grumpily at being disturbed but left the bed in peace.  
  
Paul climbed on top of Daryl and they kissed until they both needed air. "Where is your...?"  
  
"Mmph," it was hard to answer with a tongue in his mouth, so Daryl simply slapped the bedside drawer.  
  
Paul grabbed the condom and bottle of lube in 0.2 seconds flat. He dribbled some onto his own fingers and reached back, sinking himself on them and moaning with pleasure. _Fuck_. Daryl had never seen a person fingering themselves, but he needed to admit that it was a pretty great sight.  


Paul put a condom on Daryl's dick and slicked him up next before lining himself up and sinking backward and down, bit by bit, until Daryl was fully seated inside of him. _Oh my God_. The two of them breathed together for a good minute or so while Paul adjusted. Soon, he began to rock. Back and forth, steady and slow, letting out the most delicious moans and whimpers with each movement.  
  
Before long, however, Daryl was desperate to fuck Paul into the mattress. He flipped them over carefully and Paul's eyes widened with desire. He really liked this, Daryl realized. He guessed it had something to do with all of Paul's martial arts training. He could likely kick almost anyone's ass, so to give himself over to being helpless and under someone else's control must have been an incredible turn on. Taking a cue from that, Daryl clasped Paul's wrists again and pinned them above his head. He was rewarded with a sharp cry and Paul's desperate grinding against him. Daryl didn't let up. He kept Paul's wrists pinned as he fucked into him, perfecting the angle until he got that wild cry with every single thrust. Paul's hands opened and closed against the empty air, desperate to grasp something. His breathing went from shallow gasping to deeper, almost euphoric moans and unintelligible babbling. His eyes were completely glazed over, he looked gone as he neared orgasm. Daryl wondered if Paul would even recognize him if he were able to focus.  
  
Daryl figured he could experiment with something like that later. Right now, he felt himself getting close and Paul was obviously on the precipice. Daryl took one hand off Paul's wrists and gripped his erection, matching his uneven thrusts with tight pulls. Paul's cries grew higher in pitch, his entire body tensed like a rubber band about to snap, and he shook apart beneath him, spilling between them and actually screaming Daryl's name as his hole clenched rhythmically around his cock, milking the come from him. Daryl groaned into Paul's neck as orgasm gripped him tight, crashing over him in waves until he collapsed against the smaller man, who was now coming down from his own high.  
  
"Holy fuck." Paul was breathing hard.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"That was fucking brilliant."  
  
"Yeah. It was."  
  
"Your coffee is free tomorrow."  
  
Daryl laughed. "So now I'm a whore being paid in lattes?"  
  
"Depends on if the sex is always going to be this good," Paul giggled as Daryl lightly smacked his hip. "Hey!"  
  
They kissed slowly as Daryl removed himself carefully from Paul before tying off the condom and tossing it in a bin next to his bed. The second he was settled back into place, Paul rolled over and tucked himself into Daryl.  
  
"Hope this is cool. I told you I love to cuddle."  
  
_And I love you_ , Daryl thought as he wrapped his arms around Paul and pulled him closer, but all he said was "Yeah. It's cool.”  



	16. The Cougar and the Fox

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daryl's relaxing in bed when a sudden weight falls onto his back, startling him and forcing air out of his lungs. He lets out a displeased rumble and peers over his shoulder, seeing the smiling face of Paul Rovia staring back at him.

Daryl's relaxing in bed when a sudden weight falls onto his back, startling him and forcing air out of his lungs. He lets out a displeased rumble and peers over his shoulder, seeing the smiling face of Paul Rovia staring back at him. The younger man's in a partial shift; his giant bat-like ears pointed up toward the ceiling and tail flicking lazily behind him. It sets off a small alarm in Daryl's head, but he resolutely shoves it aside and scowls at the fox.

"The hell is wrong with you?"

"I missed you."

"Hasn't even been a week."

"Still."

Daryl grumbles again and shifts a bit, trying to get Paul off him, to no avail. He manages to twist himself enough to give Paul the full scale of his scowl. Paul continues to smile at him, settling himself down more on Daryl, his tail wagging faster, playful.

"You know I could eat you, right?" Daryl asks, squirming ineffectively. "Fuckin' two bites. Not even a filling meal."

"That's rude," Paul quips, eyes narrowing into a leer. "Bet there's other ways you could eat me, though."

He yelps in surprise when Daryl suddenly shifts forms underneath him, effectively throwing him off the bed. He lands in a crouch, blinking down at the floor before looking up and giving the cougar on the bed a wide grin. Daryl purrs at him, body low to the bed and tail flicking lazily; it's the only warning Paul has for what's about to happen and he knows it. He lets out an excited chirp more befitting of his animal form and twists, launching himself out of the room and out the back door, transforming once he clears the threshold. Daryl didn't immediately follow Paul, knowing the chase would've been over too soon if he did; instead, he lazily trots out of their home after giving the fox a decent head start. He pauses when he gets outside and lets out a series of chirps, rumbling softly when Paul chirps back at him, too caught up in his excitement to be cautious. Lucky for him, it's a cool night, so pinpointing his location will be more of a challenge than usual, but Daryl's not worried. If he's careful and plays it right, he'll have his little fox under him in no time at all.

With that thought in mind, Daryl chirps again and sets off in the general direction of the answering chirps from his mate.


	17. Come Away to the Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul accepts an ill-advised party invitation and meets a handsome stranger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _aby's note: this was a spontaneous new submission after the merman fanart inspired someone <3_

 

Coming to this party was a stupid fucking idea and it should not have taken stumbling across his ex making out with his new boyfriend in the kitchen for Paul to figure that out.

Maggie had begged him not to go, stay home with her for the weekend and watch Netflix. But Maggie was married and seeing her with her husband being all lovey-dovey would have been a special kind of torture, and especially now that she was pregnant. To think that Paul had actually thought about sticking around for Alex, that he had been looking at rings and thinking about proposing. What the fuck was he thinking?

Cheers erupted from a backyard further up the bank and Paul took another swig from the bottle of Jack he had swiped in his hasty exit from the house. Not like they were going to miss it. Or him, if he jumped. Well, he could swim but maybe he could stay still and let himself sink.

More cheers, another swig and Paul scoffed. Who the fuck was he trying to fool? He wasn’t going to kill himself, least of all over fucking _Alex_. Alex who was an ascended fuckbuddy because Paul started feeling anxious when Maggie announced she was pregnant. He should have had more faith in Maggie. Instead of abandoning him like he expected, she had asked him to be her unborn child’s godfather and had demanded he accompany her to doctor visits when Glenn couldn’t. He didn’t need Alex. Why the fuck did he come here?

The party was at a lake house Alex claimed belonged to some rich uncle or the other. This was the first Paul had heard of any such relative. More like sugar daddy, not that it mattered to Paul anymore. This was Wes’ problem and good fucking riddance.

Something splashed in the water up ahead and Paul took another drink. Jumping in would not do him any good anyway, if the stories were to be believed. Apparently this lake had fucking _mermen_.

Paul had been sitting on this deck, recently renovated because of course it was, since mid-afternoon and he had seen neither hair nor tail of any such creatures. The sun had done a number on him, too, not that he gave a shit in the midst of his wallowing. His face, hands and legs were red and prickly to the touch. The alcohol had dehydrated him further, but once Paul sat down on the deck, he had had no interest or willpower to get up again, if only to lie down. He and Alex were definitely over and with that, Paul was once again a stray no one wanted. He might as well throw himself in the fucking lake.

He lifted the Jack for another swig and nearly fell over at the lack of weight in it. The setting sun cast a dim golden hue around the lake. It was still bright enough for him to see the other empty bottles and beer cans. Fuck, he was going to give himself alcohol poisoning. Hell, he really needed the bathroom.

Paul dropped the empty bottle and rolled onto his stomach. There was a splash in the background, probably the bottle falling into the lake. Fuck it. He was never coming back to this place anyway, let Alex play fetch.

His vision swam and nausea rose in his gut as he moved to stand. He stopped on all fours to settle his head, then pushed himself to his feet. Ha! Even impaired he was an excellent karateka. The deck swayed below him but he was not going to fall. His sensei had pushed him hardest, first for his natural talent, second for his small size, and third to teach him to channel the near-uncontrollable rage he had carried since he was a little boy. Thank fuck for that or he would have probably beaten the crap out of Wes in the kitchen.

He stopped to look out at the lake. No, he wouldn’t have beaten up Wes, it wasn’t his fault that Paul was a dumb fuck. Maybe he should look for a sugar daddy like Alex had, finally take advantage of his pretty face. He had certainly been told as much by various men and women since he hit puberty, but no, he had to be all noble and shit. And look where that had gotten him.

Okay, so he was at a million dollar lake house in a neighbourhood full of them with the speedboats to match. Somewhere on the other end, they were stringing lights for a party too. The music was still low but that was going to change. Paul had run into that group of rich kids on an ice run. One of the girls had invited him over with a flirty smile but though he winked, Paul chose not to tell her that he much preferred her brother.

Another splash and he dropped his gaze back to the water, watching the light play on the surface. Something flickered into view, iridescent white, and vanished again. Alex had mentioned the good fishing to be had.

Paul unzipped his pants, pulled his dick out and raised a middle finger in salute. And then someone said, “Hey!”

Paul started, tripped over his own feet and fell back. His head hit something on the deck so hard, his vision whitened and then everything went black.

*

_“Shit! Don’t be dead! Come on man, don’t be dead…”_

Paul blinked open his eyes to searing pain radiating from the back of his head. It was pitch black out, thank God. He must have hit a bottle, a full one, and he was damn lucky he wasn’t dead. Then he wiggled his toes and realized that his feet were underwater. A chilly wind let him know that his dick was still out too.

Wincing, Paul fixed his clothes, looking around for witnesses. He was lying on the bank some feet away from the deck…well, the remains of it anyway. In the twilight, he could just make out the remains of it sticking up in the air. Somehow he must have broken it in his fall, and judging by the music and cheers, none of the motherfuckers in the house had noticed.

No, that wasn’t right. He had heard someone speaking before he woke and he turned, searching, as they said, “Fuck man, you nearly gave me a heart attack.”

Paul must have hit his head harder than he thought because who the hell was this? The guy hovering over his left side had long, dark hair, a graying scruffy beard, dark blue eyes and nice, broad shoulders. He had at least a decade on Paul, and he wore some of it on his body alongside a number of tattoos. He had a whole aging bad boy look that Paul had never considered until that moment but now made his mouth water.

Or maybe that was the alcohol.

When Paul finally dragged his gaze from those arms, the guy said, “I was swimming by when I saw you pissing in the lake. I was going to yell at you about it, cause what the fuck man, but your deck collapsed. You might want to sue your contractor.”

“Pfft,” said Paul with a pained grunt, trying to sit up. “I’m fucking drunk and this isn’t my house. Everyone would just say I fell off and drowned.”

His head was aching something fierce and he still wanted to throw up, but he wasn’t bleeding so he guessed that was alright. His rescuer was wearing nothing more than a pair of dark pants hanging low on his hips, that he hadn’t buttoned up all the way. Paul’s gaze snagged on the trail of dark hair disappearing into the top and he had to shake himself to look away.

When his gaze met the other man’s, his rescuer was staring back at him with a furrowed brow, eyes narrowed.

Paul was not too drunk to not be embarrassed, though he could point out that this guy had seen his dick, and asked, “So um, may I have the name of my hero?”

“Daryl,” he replied with a grunt, though his cheeks reddened slightly. Interesting. 

“Paul, but my friends call me Jesus,” said Paul with his most charming smile.

“Fuck you are, Jesus walked on water,” said Daryl with a huffing laugh.

Paul chose to ignore the slight and asked, “You er…live around here?”

“My whole life,” said Daryl. “Well, most of it anyway. Family cabin. You a guest up there?”

He nodded towards the house where still no one had noticed Paul’s absence. Well he was used to it anyway. At least the house lights gave Paul a good look at Daryl’s face. “Yes…well I was anyway. My ex and I are definitely done. I should have left but I caught a ride with another friend and they’re not leaving until tomorrow.”

Daryl stared at the house for a beat and then said, “I’ve got a cabin too…if…if you want somewhere to hang out, sober up for a few hours. Let me at least get you a beer. You…you look like you need a break from this man.”

Paul wanted to refuse. He was pretty sure he could take this guy if he turned out to be a serial killer…but he was wet, he did not want to go back into the house and explain, if they even asked, what happened, and this guy was nice to look at. He said, “Best not try anything. I can yell really loud.”

Daryl laughed, stood up and held out his hand.

*

Daryl’s cabin was half the size of the lake house and clean, with power and everything. It was also sparsely decorated, aside from the essentials—couch, stove, fridge, sink, bathroom—there was copious, expensive-looking hunting gear. This did not help Paul’s fears that he had walked into a murderous trap, but Daryl had cold beer and heated a pizza while Paul warmed by the fire, so it wasn’t so bad.

And once he settled in, Paul couldn’t stop talking.

To alleviate the awkward silence that had descended when they entered the cabin, ironically because Daryl had ducked his head and put as much distance as he could manage between them, Paul had started to tell him the story of him and Alex. When Daryl had not flinched at the mention of a boyfriend, Paul delved into other embarrassing moments in his life. This quickly became his life story—orphan, group home, finally adopted by an elderly couple who wanted someone to leave their stuff to but weren’t really concerned about making the connection as family. The best thing they did was put Paul into martial arts and he was clearly still fucking drunk because offered to show Daryl a few moves.

The other man had politely declined, and Paul said that he wasn’t bothered by his parents’ disinterest because they at least got him out of the system, but he wished that he could have a family of his own. Well there was Maggie but she didn’t count because she was married to this really handsome Korean guy, Glenn. He talked about books he liked, movies he had seen, jobs he had had—pizza shop employee was one of the first, alongside Maggie’s future husband—and his apparent inability to hold onto a boyfriend.

Daryl contributed the occasional grunt but otherwise let Paul talk. It was nice, though Paul was sure it was going to get deeply embarrassing once he had sobered up more. That, and the way he had been openly checking the guy out as he talked.

They went through a cycle where Paul would stare, Daryl would notice and duck away from his gaze, and Paul would turn so he wouldn’t be such a creep. As time went on though, Daryl stopped shying away, until, just before he cleared away their dinner things, he met and held Paul’s stare for several seconds. Paul had looked away first, not least because he had had the sudden, vivid image of running his tongue from the tattoo over the guy’s heart to his mouth.

Paul could hardly be blamed for taking that as a sign of interest. So when Daryl finally settled beside him at the fire Paul didn’t think twice about leaning over and kissing him.

Daryl let him, then leaned back and said, “You’re drunk, and I’m not.”

Paul did not back away. “I’m not that drunk,” he said.

“If you were sober you would not do this,” said Daryl. “We just met, man. And you’re upset over your boyfriend.”

“I wasn’t really that into him,” said Paul, shrugging. “And hey, you saved my life.”

“Even worse,” said Daryl, and this time he pushed Paul back.

Paul let himself fall into the sofa with a frown. Things had been going so well too. He needed a distraction for a few hours, and yeah, it might be a terrible mistake, but was that so bad?

Daryl chuckled softly, which made Paul worry that he had said some of that stuff aloud, and said, “How about another way to get your mind off your troubles. Want to hear a story?”

Paul lifted his head to glare at him and said, “This must be one hell of a story.”

Daryl smiled and Paul felt his heartbeat stutter. Daryl needed to do that smiling thing way more often. And then he began, “This cabin used to belong to Dad, and he and Uncle Jess inherited it from a great grand-uncle several times removed. I don’t know. Anyway, they liked to come up here to hunt, took me and my brother almost as soon as we could walk. They had a lot of stories about the kinds of things you could find in the woods.”

“What? You going to tell me they saw Bigfoot and hunted chupacabra?” Paul interrupted rudely, still a bit miffed that his advance had been rebuffed. His sugar daddy search was off to a bad start if he got rejected by the first guy he tried.

Daryl slapped his knee and said, “Who’s telling the story here? And I saw a chupacabra once, just couldn’t catch it on my own.”

Paul raised an eyebrow. “Were you high?” he asked. He noticed that Daryl had not moved the hand on his knee.

“Nah,” said Daryl, using the other hand to scratch his chin. “Anyway, my Dad and Uncle, they used to say they were Hunters, like they were something separate from regular hunters. Taught me and Merle everything we knew, well, I were always better at it. Merle used to say that I had an unfair advantage and it took me forever to realise he wasn’t just being an asshole.” He took a deep breath, exhaled and asked, “You ever hear of the merman of this lake?”

Paul reached for Daryl’s hand on his knee, wrapped his fingers around a thumb, and said, “Nope. I didn’t even know this lake fucking existed before today. Seems like all of them have some awesome weird creature that they can put on t-shirts. I heard that this one drowns polluters. Keeps the lake safe for the fish and rich people. Sounds like something they made up to keep the poor people away.”

“Is that a bad thing?” asked Daryl, sweeping his long, damp hair out of his face. “The polluting thing, not the rich people thing. Fuck them.”

Paul tracked the movement, enjoying all the new features of Daryl’s handsome face on display, and replied, “No. It’s a pretty nice lake. Couldn’t have asked for a better place to end a relationship at. No good if it’s full of poison…but a little pee every now and then wouldn’t hurt it. Ocean’s full of it.”

“True,” said Daryl. Paul stroked his thumb with a finger, then tightened his grip and pulled. Daryl went easily, but braced himself with his free hand, looking down into Paul’s eyes and said, “But I’m not swimming in the ocean.”

Paul lifted himself just enough to meet Daryl’s lips again. This time he kissed back, firmly, and Paul traced his tongue along the other man’s lower lip until he opened his mouth. Paul smiled, he could not help it, then swirled his tongue along Daryl’s. The other man freed his hand from Paul’s to slide it under the back of his head to get a grip of dark hair. Paul turned his head, just so and wrapped his arms around Daryl’s chest.

It was unhurried exploring. Daryl smelled of the lake water and tree bark and tasted of beer and pizza. Paul knew he must have smelled awful in turn and his skin chafed at the contact, but he wanted it almost as much as he wanted air. It was stupid too, they barely knew anything about each other and Daryl hadn’t shared a lot of his own past. Paul hoped he wouldn’t have to run for his life once he got the details. Daryl didn’t look the type, despite his rough exterior. It would just be Paul’s luck that the first guy he ran, well, fell into after Alex turned out to be some kind of redneck fugitive.

Feeling bold the longer the kissing went on, Paul slipped a hand down to Daryl’s hip, grinding up and Daryl broke away with a laugh. “Oh no, you don’t.”

Paul gripped a handful of his ass anyway, delightfully bare under the pants and said, “I’m not too drunk for kissing?”

“You’ve also got whiskey dick,” said Daryl, rolling his hips down with emphasis.

Paul threw his head back, biting his lip. If what he felt a moment ago was all this guy, well, “Not for long.”

“I’m not having sex with you tonight,” said Daryl. “We just met. I’m not that kind of guy.”

“I’m here for the weekend. I can make you breakfast, and one of those skills I picked up was fishing,” said Paul, hoping he didn’t sound too desperate. Then again, if it worked so that he wouldn’t have to go back to Alex’s house…

Daryl leaned down to kiss him again, hard and hot, while trailing a hand down Paul’s chest to his groin to palm him through his pants. Paul ground against his hand, enjoying the friction, and said, “You’re giving me mixed signals here.”

“Shut the fuck up,” said Daryl.

Paul was happy to oblige.

*

They didn’t have sex. Paul couldn’t get anything going and Daryl seemed content with groping. Paul discovered that Daryl had a lot of scars on his back, long-healed but there was a story there. Daryl wouldn’t share it though, only joking that they weren’t from frightened victims, and distracted him with kissing. Then Paul passed out sometime shortly after Daryl finally let him slip his hands into his pants.

Paul was iron-hard now, but the cabin was dark and quiet and Daryl was gone.

Fuck.

For a moment, Paul wondered if he had actually hallucinated the whole thing. But there was a piercing pain in his head when he sat up and the pizza and beer were threatening a reappearance. The blanket spread over him also smelled like Daryl, and there were a pair of dark-coloured pants on the floor nearby.

Paul pulled himself to his feet and staggered to the toilet. He contemplated going out and peeing in the lake again, but he told himself it was probably freezing at this hour and if he fell in again there may not be anyone around to rescue him.

Daryl’s bathroom was as spare as the outer room, though there was a book about survivors of child abuse on the sink. That jerked Paul out of his stupor real quick. The thought of those scars on Daryl’s back…the fuck?

Daryl had not left Paul on the floor to go to bed, the one in the corner was empty and the loft space was for storage. Had he really gone out at this hour? With no pants? He said that he had been swimming earlier, had Paul interrupted his suicide attempt?

The night was not as chilly as Paul thought it would be when he stepped out onto the porch, scanning the area for any sign of the other man. The rival parties were still going down the lake, but quietly. He watched them for a few minutes, hating Alex again, and himself for being in this situation, and then he heard the splash.

The porch lights weren’t strong enough to see clearly but Paul knew that something was there. That splash had been too big for a fish. Had the guy gone skinny-dipping in the dark? Paul really hoped he was just skinny-dipping.

Paul started down for the lake, calling as he went, “Daryl? That you? Sure you want to be out there naked? If the fish don’t get your balls, some kind of flesh-eating bacteria might. I’ve heard about those things in these parts. Eat your flesh clean off.”

Another splash, a little quieter and closer, and Paul stopped. He might have held his breath.

Daryl called back, “Ain’t got that here. You should come in. The water’s nice.”

“For you to drown me?” asked Paul, trying to joke. His voice might have been too high and breathy but his relief at the calm of Daryl’s voice was powerful.

“Well I should after you passed out in the middle of that half-assed handjob. No one likes blue balls, man,” said Daryl.

Paul winced at the memory. He was definitely sober now and thinking of all that he had done for the evening so far was deeply embarrassing. He called back, “Are you really naked in there? All this talk about polluting the lake and that’s what you’re doing? Wait, is that what story time was all about? You’re the merman and you’re trying to make little merbabies with the fish?”

Daryl huffed a laugh at that and said, “Nah. I’d be the worst dad. Never had a good example.”

Paul thought back to the book in the bathroom, the scars on his back and said, “I don’t know. You seem like a good guy.”

Daryl said nothing to this, just drifted back and forth in the water. Paul watched him for a moment, catching odd flashes of iridescence in the low light every now and then, and made a decision.

He shrugged off his shirt, pants and after a moment’s hesitation, his boxers. Daryl said nothing, but Paul could feel his gaze. He resisted the urge to cover himself as he walked into the water, and tried to focus on Daryl’s steady splashing.

The first touch of the water was icy. He hissed and paused, wondering if he had lost his damn mind. Then Daryl swam closer and said gently, “I’m right here, come on.”

Paul took a breath and walked in. Daryl drifted back, just out of reach, until Paul was deep enough to start paddling, and said, “When my old man died, my brother told me a story about my mother.”

“More stories?” asked Paul, squinting into the darkness for a hint of pale skin.

“Blue balls, remember,” said Daryl. “Anyway, like I said, my old man and Uncle Jess, they loved these stories of these weird creatures. Chupacabra, Bigfoot, shit like that, cryptids—you know what those are, right?”

Paul flicked water in Daryl’s general direction and said, “I have the Internet, man. Everyone’s heard of at least one of these things. There’s whole shows about it on TV too. Get on with the story.”

He could practically hear Daryl’s smile as he said, “Yeah, okay. So my brother, Merle, I told you how I always thought he was jealous of my tracking skills? Well he still looked out for me when we was kids, but he hightailed it out of the trailer park as soon as he was eighteen. Had spent a lot of time in juvie before that anyway so I guess it was no loss. Then the old man died when I was fourteen, and Uncle Jess shortly after that and Merle came back. Said that he had a duty as an older brother to look out for me, didn’t tell me that they kicked his ass out for insubordination and setting up a black fellow soldier to get shot. Fucking asshole.”

“Anyway, I was one of them late bloomers. Got tall real quick but everything else took its time. When I started sleepwalking though, we came up here, he got drunk and said, ‘Old man is dead, Jess is dead, with my ways, I’ll probably be dead soon too and you need to know this stuff.’ I thought he was talking about girls and shit like that. I had never noticed them so I was confused but Merle is my big brother and when he talked, I had to listen.

“The story goes that there used to be a whole family of merpeople living in this lake. Nobody knows when they got here but Merle said it was a a hurricane that picked them up and dropped them inland. This was a long time ago, back before there were too many people living at the lake so no one knew about them for quite some time. Hunters did though. The merman, I guess the father in the family?—had a bad habit of drowning anything that got too close to the water. They said he was angry. He couldn’t get back to the sea and the humans were making his little hole unlivable, so he lashed out. Plus he had a really pretty daughter, didn’t want any of the men getting their grubby little hands on her.”

“Understandable. One minute, she’s your little princess, the next she’s bringing objects from the surface and singing about having legs,” said Paul, nodding.

Daryl splashed water at him, a lot of it as if he had slapped the water with his hand. Paul swung both arms, sending a wave back and Daryl yelped. “Son of a bitch, got me in the eye.”

“I didn’t want to story time,” said Paul.

“I don’t care, I’m telling you anyway,” said Daryl. “So like I was saying. Everyone knew about the merpeople but most people avoided the lake. Dad and Uncle Jess were just the kind of assholes the merman must have been worried about though, because they got it into their heads that they needed to meet this mermaid. The old cabin hadn’t been used in years but it still belonged to us so they moved in and started using it when they went hunting. Kept an eye out for the merman and his daughter. At first, they got nothing. This is a huge lake and they couldn’t always be up here. Uncle Jess gave up on it, said they were grown men who should know better. Dad though, he was a Dixon and a Hunter. Dixons aren’t quitters. He kept coming back to the lake and one day he hit the jackpot.

“One day he decided to go swimming in the lake, fuck the bullshit about merpeople, and what does he find? The most beautiful woman he had ever seen. My old man, he wasn’t no looker, but he hit her with the Dixon charm and the next thing you know, he’s running up here every chance he gets to see her.”

Paul had been quietly treading closer to Daryl while he talked, but the other man kept stubbornly out of reach. In hopes of distracting him, he asked, “Did you know your mother?”

Daryl sighed and said, “She died when I was a boy. Everything I know about her comes from Merle’s stories. I don’t think any of my memories are real.”

Paul refrained from mentioning that this story sounded as implausible as they came, but said, “So I guess her father eventually found out?”

“Not for a while. You have to understand that a lot of time had passed since the merpeople first arrived and my old man met this girl. The lake had changed. Hunters gave way to farms became rich people’s lake houses. This cabin is only still here because there are Dixons left and I was able to fix it over. Refused to sell. Back then, my old man didn’t have to worry about that but the merpeople did. With more humans at the lake, people who weren’t afraid of the old stories, some of who didn’t even go swimming, just wanted the lake to look at, it was only a matter of time before things got ugly. To hear Merle tell it, our daddy promised this girl he would get her and her pa back to the sea.”

“She believed him? Why couldn’t they get out on their own anyway?” asked Paul, squinting into the dark for Daryl. He was starting to get tired and annoyed with chasing the other man through the water.

“Nope,” said Daryl. “They say that the hurricane that brought them in was a terrible one, flooded the area for months, pushed the sea far inland. The only way out was another like that or human help so they had been there for a long time. And what did she know of men with her daddy keeping them away? No way to tell when one was just trying to get in your pants.”

“I gave you plenty of notice,” said Paul, grinning.

Daryl swept a hand across his shoulder blades in passing and Paul shivered. Daryl said, “You were drunk. You need to let that go, man.”

“You’re not making it easy,” said Paul. “But fine. You have me hooked, what happened next.”

Daryl chuckled and said, “Well next her daddy found out and he was mad as hell. Lashed out again. Didn’t want his girl nowhere near them humans. Drowned a few young men he thought likely candidates. Trouble was, one of them he drowned was the son of a man who didn’t give a fuck about fairytales and had the means to set up a hunt. In a matter of days, they had every hunter and Hunter and fisherman out on the lake looking. Worse, little lady tells my old man that she’s pregnant. Don’t ask me man, I’m giving you the story as I got it. With that news, my old man realized that things were serious and he had to do something. Lucky for him, there was a storm coming and he hoped to take advantage of the flooding to get them to the sea. Instead, they caught the merman the in two days and my old man panicked, filled the tray of his old truck with water in a tarp and high-tailed it for the ocean. Halfway there, it got too dangerous so daddy took a detour to the trailer park to hide her with family. The lake residents killed her old man.”

“Damn. This story sucks, man,” said Paul.

Daryl swam closer to trace a finger along his face, and said, “That’s not the end. Mermaid fell in love with the fucking trailer park and decided she didn’t want to leave. She had never been on land for so long before and wanted to test them legs out. Has one son she names Merle and then some years later, another boy she calls Daryl. Then another hurricane comes and floods the area, washes her away while she tries to protect the two little boys she thought were just human and the old man never forgives them.”

Paul stopped trying to swim to Daryl. The other man took him by the hand anyway and pulled him into his arms. He also wrapped his tail around Paul’s legs.

“You’re a fucking merman?” asked Paul, eyes wide, not quite believing what his senses were telling him.

“Only half,” said Daryl, shrugging. “Merle didn’t get nothing. I even look like her.”

“Fuck you,” said Paul.

“You’ve been trying.”

Paul shoved at Daryl’s sides, and when he wouldn’t budge, slid his hand down until he could feel the scales. “Holy shit, you’re a fucking merman!” he exclaimed.

“You said that already, and it’s only half. But you’re also not freaking out so that’s good,” said Daryl, smiling.

Paul leaned forward and trailed his nose along Daryl’s face until their mouths aligned and kissed him. He didn’t smell or taste any different and Paul didn’t feel wildly more attracted to the other man than he did already. Perhaps sensing his worry, Daryl quickly broke the kiss and said, “I’m not going to drown you…if you were wondering. I was thinking about it when you started pissing, but you’re lucky that your pretty face saved you. Your ex and his friends on the other hand…”

They both looked down the lake to the party house. A few of them were splashing around in the water now. The bank was littered with bottles, cups and discarded clothing. Some of that probably belonged to Alex and fucking Wes.

Paul said, “Let’s not do that. I’ve got a better idea.”

“Course you do,” said Daryl. Paul was still semi-hard. Daryl gave him an experimental fondle and Paul nearly died. Daryl actually fucking smirked at that and kissed him, sucking Paul’s tongue deep into his mouth. Oh, now he wanted to have sex with him. But no, this was more important. It almost physically hurt Paul to pull away from Daryl, “Not that…now. We could, I don’t know, talk. We have whole weekend and you’re a fucking merman.”

“There’s nothing more to it. I don’t have fancy powers but I can at least mess up your ex’s party,” said Daryl. He fanned his tail near the surface and sent a small wave rushing to the bank.

Paul watched it go, thought about the possibilities and shook his head. “What if something goes wrong? The human half of you would end up in jail and I don’t know of any with swimming pools.”

Daryl chuckled and said, “I haven’t actually killed anyone yet.”

“Well let’s keep it that way,” said Paul, paddling backwards to the bank.

Daryl let him go, but then said, “You’re the first person I told this to.”

“That’s fine,” said Paul. “No one would believe me if I told so you don’t have to drown me.”

“I already said I…you can be a little shit, you know that right?” asked Daryl.

Paul scurried up the bank for his clothes, cursing the chilly wind nipping at his wet, exposed skin. Daryl snorted behind him, but met him halfway there, human and warm and naked at his back.

Daryl got them two beers while Paul dressed and then they settled again before the fire.

Paul couldn’t help but stare at Daryl, trying to pick out anything unusual in his features. Daryl let him for as long as he could stand and then asked, “Are you going to make this weird?”

“You mean more than it already is?” asked Paul.

Daryl groaned and said, “You know, I have human interests. I like burgers and beer. I ride and fix motorcycles. I only come up here when I can’t put off the Shift—oh my god, you’re already making it weird.” He snatched Paul’s phone from his hand.

Paul laughed and said, “I was checking my messages.”

“If I see a picture of me on this, you’re never leaving,” said Daryl, glaring at him.

Paul waved away his response. “I’m already staying the weekend, as long as you feed me, I’m fine with staying as long as you want.”

Daryl’s eyes widened, “Wh…who told you that you could stay the weekend?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: mention of suicide
> 
>  
> 
> _This is the last fanfic chapter. Tomorrow will be a fanart update as last chapter and the writers will be revealed :)_


	18. Beasts

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Fanart by @[kennichka ](http://www.kennichka.tumblr.com)aka [@desushoard](https://tmblr.co/mhjcFAfRqVqZPImuJGQ8x4Q)

 


	19. SURVEY

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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